


The Pranksters of Kinloch Hold

by Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: A Comedy of Assholes (Rhapsody, etc.) [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexual Character, Autofellatio, Bees, Cotard delusion, Exhibitionism, Fist Fights, I'll show you why mages are feared!, M/M, Not Actually a Zombie, Offensive Nicknames, Oral Sex, Other, Referenced Ongoing Abuse, Self-inflicted Vallaslin, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Circle of Magi was an unforgiving environment to grow up in, and while some mages thrived in its tightly-structured confines, others threw themselves out the windows of the upper storeys, just to be sure they'd never have to go back. In between were the ones who grated at the edges, secretly indulging in everything from the basic facets of life denied them to the study of forbidden magics, from wild escape attempts to filling the templar barracks with bees. These were the Pranksters of Kinloch Hold.</p><p>[Summary altered, 2017.06.23]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An introduction of sorts...

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the tags won't make sense until later chapters. Chapters will be arranged in chronological order, but may not be _posted_ in that order. They'll have names, though, so it should be easier to figure out if you've read one.

They met when Anders was sixteen. A brief tangle in the hall, between classes. Something almost forgettable.

"Hey, roundear, I heard them say you think you're really something. You keep trying to break out of here, like it's going to mean something. Don't you know there's nothing out there?"

Anders turned to face a little brown elf with bright red hair. The boy looked like he already knew all there was to know about the world, huge golden eyes already condescending and a little sarcastic.

"You know who I am, and you're still talking to me?" Anders scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "That's not going to end well for anyone. You're too young for me, kid. Piss off."

Anders walked away, and the elf let him go.

* * *

Two days later, Anders opened his trunk to find it was full of bees. No hive, no queen, just angry workers. They swarmed as soon as the lid was lifted, and from somewhere off in the far end of the dormitory, he could hear laughter, under all the yelling from other apprentices.

"I'm looking for some little ginger elf," Anders insisted, as he returned from the clinic, upstairs. Wynne had managed to get the swelling down, and all of the stingers out. Someday, he'd be able to do that, too, but someday hadn't yet come, and he was still stuck going to Wynne. "Dark skin? Yellow eyes? I'm pretty sure that elfy asshole's responsible for the bees."

"Sounds like Alim," one of the younger girls said, pointing to the other dormitory. "I don't know why he'd ... bees? Are you sure it was him?"

"No, I'm not sure, but I have this creeping suspicion. I only pissed off one person so far this week."

"You're not trying very hard, are you?" Jowan teased, sprawled across Solona's bed, with a book.

Anders threw him the finger and went to lunch. Alim was sitting at the first table through the door, eating a bowl of soup and balancing an egg on the tip of his finger. Anders slammed his hands on the table and Alim caught the egg, looking up, unimpressed.

"Bees? You asshole! You little elven asshole! You-- you _elfhole_!" Anders hissed, trying to keep the whole thing below the level of templar intervention. "Is this because I said you were too young? Well you _still are_."

"You assume so much, roundear. I have no intention of putting anything in your ass, which does seem to be the popular thing to do, around here. Unless it's my foot. Or maybe bees." Alim smiled up at Anders. "I could put bees in your ass, but I don't think that would get us anywhere."

Anders looked utterly terrified for a split second -- of all the things he'd had done to him or imagined someone doing to him, that was, without question, the worst he'd ever heard. "Fine. Talk. What do you want from me?"

"I know you can read ancient Tevene. I decided to study Nevarran, first. Between the two of us, that means there are nearly no important books we can't read. The Antivan books are mostly translations of the Tevene, and they don't allow Rivaini texts, here. Too dangerous." Alim scoffed and took another mouthful of soup. "Too dangerous, but they'll give us the Tevinter books. Who thought of that?"

"What's your point?" Anders asked, not sure he liked where this was going.

"My point is that we could be unstoppable, and if we're good enough, no one will ever know it was us. But, I think that takes two of us, because you keep getting caught, and I'm ... Nevarran texts are good for things that aren't really going to do much, around here."

"So, explain to me why you picked Nevarran?" Anders grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and took a bite.

"There are days when the dead will walk," Alim recited cryptically, gazing into his soup, "and these are days to remember."

"You're a necromancer!?" Anders hissed, eyes wide.

"It's a talent. I like it." Alim smiled. "The templars took my pet sparrow and broke her neck. Told me robe trash didn't get to have pets. She still sings in the barracks at dawn, every day."

"Holy shit." Anders laughed. "I'm starting to like you, elfhole."

"I'm still not sure about you, roundear." Alim raised his eyebrows.


	2. The Problem with Orlais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valery de Serault has a complicated relationship with everything, but most of all with his best friend.

The room was sweltering with the completely unnatural heat of the Fereldan summer, outside, but it was cooling rapidly, as the Enchanters set up glyphs on the doorways to circulate cooler air through the tower. They'd wound up using most of the ice runes kept for emergencies like these -- or emergencies like that weird Ander kid who didn't talk setting shit on fire -- but the breeze had begun to do its work, taking the edge off the oppressive heat. In a few hours, things would be back to normal -- a totally other kind of oppressive.

Val had taken the opportunity provided by some kid fainting as someone else's distraction to duck into a room full of books that he, _specifically_ , was not allowed anywhere near. Old man Remille had known _exactly_ who he was, and Irving had clearly also gotten the news, as the change in First Enchanters hadn't led to any relaxation in the restrictions on his studies. But, he'd gotten a few books out. And when he was done with them, he'd leave them somewhere careless but invisible. The librarians would find them and put them back, and there would be an investigation, but no one had seen him, so it would all be for nothing.

He slid back into a seat at the corner of a table dragged out into the great hall -- the coolest room in the tower, at the moment, even with half the students trying to cram themselves into it -- and kicked the seat on the other side of that corner, earning him an exasperated and mildly threatening look from Leofric. "You know, you're pretty good looking ... for a Fereldan."

That particular turn of his eyebrow, the way his chin tipped up and his lips curled, Leofric was on him in a split second, spilling him back across the floor along with a totally other pile of books.

"Five," Val breathed, and Leofric nodded, landing another solid slug to the middle of Val's chest, before he pushed himself back and started picking through the scrambled books, as if looking for his own.

"I'm fucking gorgeous, Fereldan or not." Leofric rolled his eyes, gathering the books Val had stolen, along with a few more innocuous volumes. "And more importantly, I'm better looking than you or, from the look of you, your entire family. And? I will never be that desperate." As if to prove his point, he sat on the corner of the table and winked at a few apprentices about their age, across the room, watching just long enough to see them point.

"You'll never be that lucky, you mean," Val hissed, carefully dragging himself to his feet. That had been a much more real punch than he'd been expecting, but he probably should have expected it. The first time he'd suggested screwing around together, much more seriously than this, Leofric had left him in need of a healer. Things were great between them, as long as Val never mentioned that he'd be more than happy to dirty himself on the only good-looking Fereldan in the building. Still, whatever they thought of each other, they had very similar tastes in the rest of what was available, and they weren't above using each other to get what they wanted -- which was an excellent arrangement, and Val hoped it would continue for many years.

Later, back in the dormitory, Val sat at the head of his bed, reading one of the books tucked into a false cover he'd cut off a textbook the tower had a hundred copies of. No one would notice one missing. Leofric sprawled sideways across the bottom of the bed, legs hanging off one side, head off the other, a different book in his hands.

"This is fucking stupid," Leofric insisted, dropping the book on his face and letting it slide to the floor. "What is the point of Force magic? Is everyone in the Marches just a wet rag? Give me ice and hexes any day."

"Maker, you're simple, sometimes," Val scoffed, almost fondly, turning one hand up from where he held the book and starting a swirl of damp air a little wider than the bed. It was cooler, now that it had gotten dark, but still warmer than either of them liked it, and Leofric was always bitchy when it got hot. Not that any other summer he'd been in Ferelden had ever gotten this hot. "Don't you tell me all the time that you wish you could punch everyone in the dining hall? That's what Force is for. That and throwing ancient Tevinter furniture down the stairs. It's why they don't teach it, here. I bet everything's built into the walls, in the Marches."

"Still isn't going to stop anyone from punching everyone in the room," Leofric argued, groaning and stretching back over his head to get the book. "And I bet half of this is lies, anyway. They tell us things are impossible, instead of that we shouldn't be doing them, and then shit happens like that weirdo elf, and nobody knows what to do with it, because as far as they know it's impossible."

"Uldred's still not happy about that." A tiny chirp of a choked off laugh made it out of Val's throat.

"Nobody's happy about that. Are you kidding me? I'm not happy about that. They should make him Tranquil." Leofric shuddered dramatically. "There are absolutely no times in my life when the halls should be full of an army of dead rodents. And for things we all know are possible that no one's doing anything about, that Anders guy who keeps setting everything on fire. Speaking of people who should've been made Tranquil. He hasn't had his harrowing and he's already a maleficar! Keeps running away to set things on fire out there -- how have they not killed him, yet? He's the perfect candidate! Tranquility would be a mercy!"

"I heard he's not just Irving's pet. Some templars finally found a use for him." The swirling breeze stopped as Val licked his finger and turned a page.

Leofric fell still, for a moment. "Better him than us," he muttered.

"If not for him, it probably _would_ be us," Val pointed out, knowing that when he said 'us', he meant himself. He was young, attractive, and Orlesian, and the last mattered more than anything, here. He was also, thanks to his great-grandfather, considered just as dangerous as the other two.

"Maybe we should thank him." Leofric's grin would've looked just as at home on a dragon.

"I'd rather not get my crotch lit on fire, if it's all the same to you."

"Well, it'd definitely make you hotter," Leofric teased, muffling his laugh with his book. "Maker, there's nobody our age, really. Everyone's twelve, twenty, or Karl."

"Or that sulky fuck who talks about his mum all the time." Val turned the book he was holding sideways, trying to work out a diagram. "Or Valoren, if you're into knife-ears."

"I could be into knife-ears, if we're talking about Valoren." Leofric stretched his legs up, lifting his hips off the bed, and sighed with relief as the blood ran back out of his feet. "Or maybe Aoife, if you can handle her laugh."

"If she's laughing, we're doing it wrong," Val pointed out, squinting at the nearly illegibly small note scribbled in the margin.

Leofric dropped his legs and rolled over, suddenly, slapping the book into the space between them. "Do you want to, then?"

Val looked over the top of the book. "Aoife or Valoren?"

"Either one. Both. One tomorrow and the other next week. I bet they'd go for us. It wouldn't take much." Leofric's wicked grin returned.

"I expect the Marquise is sending wine, next week. We can have a room, if we want one. After all, we're not dangerous! We're just having a good time."

Leofric coughed into his hand, muttering, "Speaking of people who talk about their mothers..."

"At least mine is still alive and bribing people, unlike anyone else here," Val scoffed, squaring his shoulders and sitting up straighter.

"Hey, my mum's probably still _alive_ ," Leofric argued.

"But, not bribing anyone, clearly, or I wouldn't need to do it for you."

"Hey, unlike you, my family doesn't have a long and noble history of apostasy. They're good, Maker-loving sorts who fought in the Rebellion, and they promptly disowned me when I turned, not like _your_ freaky family." Leofric reached out and ran a fingernail up the bottom of Val's foot, easily dodging the kick that followed.

"And yet, this leaves us in a position where you're almost infinitely bribeable, and I have a nearly endless supply of things you want." Val looked entirely too smug about that.

"The almost is the important part, and you know it," Leofric grumbled, loudly, dropping back onto his back. "Couldn't pay me enough."

"Oh, have you finally started saying no to Orlais?" The voice came from the next bed, followed by the creak of someone standing up.

"I say no to Orlais all the time, and to this Orlesian at least three times a week. It would be more, but he's surprisingly bright, most of the time, and learns what to stop asking." Leofric didn't bother to sit up. No one was stupid enough to actually start with him.

"Yes, I'm a fucking genius, and if they'd let me study what I was studying at home, I'd prove it a hundred times over. I'd have the kind of power and control unseen since the height of the Imperium." Val huffed and finally looked up from his book, closing it into the false cover as he realised who was standing beside his bed.

Connall had been there longer than both of them, and he'd been just that little bit older, when the darkspawn came. He'd never liked any of the Orlesian mages, but Val in particular seemed to set him off. But, he hadn't been dumb enough to try anything in years, and Val couldn't imagine he'd start now, with Leofric _right there_.

"I don't know why they let you live. Orlesian maleficar, son of a family of noble apostates. Your family is why mage hunters exist.  Your family represents everything wrong with the Occupation, the worst of all Orlais, and here you are, still living like you're better than the rest of us--"

"I _am_ better than the rest of you," Val deadpanned, staring up at the inordinately angry brick-featured peasant glaring down at him.

"Do you hear him?" Connall said to Leofric, before returning his attention to Val. "You should be dead, Orlais, but I'll settle for Tranquil or sent to Aeonar. I don't know why they didn't just kill you and pretend it was an accident, when Remille died. All you Orlesians should have been put to the sword. None of you can ever be trusted." He grabbed Val's hair and moved to yank him off the bed.

Leofric's foot connected solidly with the space between Connall's hips, and he sat up smoothly. "Take your hands off him. That is mine, not yours, and he'll speak to you however I let him. And shut your fucking mouth, Valery." He knew Val would say something unspeakably rude, but he had to get Connall's hands off of Val before it happened. "Get your hands off him, before I break all your knuckles and explain, in detail, to Wynne, how it happened."

Talking to Wynne was the real threat. Her lectures were the stuff of legend, and nobody who started a fight wanted to have to deal with her, after it.

"I watched you lay him out in the great hall." Connall's wrist twisted, and Val leaned down trying not to slide off the bed. "Are you telling me you get to beat him for what he deserves, and the rest of us don't?"

"That is exactly what I'm saying, Connall. Take your hands off my Orlesian, or you get to continue this fight with me, and I will win." Leofric knew that none of them could use magic for this. They were apprentices, and part of their training was that they were forbidden to intentionally cause serious harm with magic. Punching the shit out of each other was still in, as long as no one cast spells that weren't defensive. That would maybe end in a week of washing the stairs, not a week of magebane at breakfast and writing 'I will not use magic for harm' for hours on end, each day. Enough fuckups like that _would_ get you made Tranquil or sent to Aeonar. Punching people in the face just meant you might not get picked for Enchanter, when the time came, and Sweeney and Uldred were proof that wasn't always a problem.

But, the hex was already at his fingertips when he grabbed Connall's wrist. They'd never be able to prove magic was involved. He'd broken enough bones without it.

Connall finally let go of Val's hair, and Val rolled back across the bed, out of the way, grabbing his book before anyone else could get too close a look at it.

"I'm going to talk to Irving. Do you know how many people just heard you? I'll have him sent away." Connall's chin tipped up, a triumphant smile blooming on his lips.

"Thank Andraste. Do you think you can aim for Cumberland? Maybe Dairsmuid? They've got some nice studies in my field, at either one," Val scoffed, settling his curls with one hand.

"Tell him whatever you like," Leofric replied, shifting his grip and stepping forward. Connall's wrist crunched audibly. "But, that Orlesian is mine. I am his keeper. He has no evils I do not know, and Irving knows it. That's my _job_."

Connall's mouth opened and closed a few times, as he hyperventilated, trying to figure out what Frick had just done to him. An older apprentice came and led him away, after a bit, and the rest of the room kept staring.

"Make sure you tell Wynne what happened here, Cera," Leofric called after them. "And the rest of you can go find something else to do, because the show's over. Like me. You can do m--" He looked around the room. "On second thought, never mind that. Except maybe you. Or you." He pointed to a couple of faces in the crowd and then sat back down on the foot of Val's bed.

"Is it true?" Val asked, quietly, as he sat back down and the people around them started to go back to whatever they'd been doing before.

"What, that I wouldn't do most of the people in the room?" Leofric laughed. "Weren't we just taking about that?"

"No, about Irving. That you're my 'keeper'." Val's eyes flashed in the lamplight.

"Maybe," Leofric replied after a moment's thought. "Remember, like you said, I'm almost infinitely bribeable. I'm also the only person you're really on speaking terms with. It's not important that he hasn't said it -- it's important that I know he's thinking it."

"Because, I was going to say, you're doing the worst job at keeping me from doing ... things." Val opened the book again, pointedly eyeing Leofric over the top of it.

"You can bribe me; I can blackmail you. In the end no one can get between us." Leofric shrugged and picked up the book he'd been trying to study.

"Unless we put them there." A smile teased the corner of Val's mouth.

"Valoren or Aoife?" Leofric asked.

"Whichever one we can get first, and then the other, after."

"And people actually have to ask me what I'm doing with the Orlesian." Leofric shook his head, smiling down at his book.


	3. A Harrowing Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wakes from his Harrowing; Karl is right by his side.

It was the screaming that woke him, and it took much too long for him to realise it was his own. Everything had changed -- the last thing he remembered was the grey mist, was the demon stalking him. Had he blacked out? If he had, the thing must have gotten into his head, because this was supposed to be one of the apprentice dorms, except it was more like a bad hallucination of one. Everything shifted and bent, every time he turned his head.  
  
And there, leaning over him, with a voice that swam in and out of focus -- oh. Oh, this was much, much worse than the cat.  
  
"Anders? Anders, come on, you're all right. It's over." Karl sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his hands twisted in the thin blanket as he struggled not to touch Anders. He remembered his own Harrowing, and he knew so well to wait until Anders actually saw him.  
  
"Demon," Anders hissed, eyes wide and furious, his body falling still as he waited for it to make its first move.  
  
"I can't prove I'm not," Karl admitted, obviously struggling to keep his face non-committal. "But, I want you to take a good look around you. You came back. Well, they carried you back, I heard. You've been asleep for about three days. Alim's been bringing food, every few hours, but obviously I've eaten most of it. Wynne's been in and out to make sure you're still breathing -- if you didn't wake up before tonight, we were going to take you up to the infirmary, so she could keep a closer eye on you, but we wanted you to wake up somewhere familiar -- somewhere you'd expect to wake up."  
  
"I will not fall to temptation," Anders said, quietly, closing his eyes again. His memory swam in and out of focus. The bleak haze, the tiger waiting for him... And then he remembered falling: the way the walls of the observatory swept up past him, Irving's quiet expletives, Wynne and Ser Bran's sudden lunges toward him. "Get out of my head."  
  
"I wish I was in your head, so I could see what you think is going on, but I'm not." Karl scratched at the stubble creeping up his cheek above the line of his slightly-lopsided beard. "I've got a pretty good guess, though, having been there, myself."  
  
Anders grunted and tried to sit up, eyes still closed, and Karl grabbed the pillow and turned it, so when Anders fell back against the headboard, he'd hit something soft. One dull 'flumpf' later, his quick thinking was vindicated.  
  
"You haven't had anything to eat or drink since before you went upstairs, and if that went anything like mine, you've used a lot of magic." Karl pressed a mug against Anders's hand, careful not to make skin contact. "It's a soup. It's cold, but it's better than nothing."  
  
Anders gingerly wrapped his fingers around the mug, holding it tight in both hands. "Karl, if you're a demon, I'm going to kill you in the face until you die, as soon as I get my legs back under me. But, right now, I am just too tired for this shit."  
  
"That's what I want to hear!"  
  
Anders opened one eye just enough to get a hazy impression of the man beside him. "Only a demon could be that cheerful at this hour."  
  
"You don't even know what time it is. There are no windows in here," Karl scoffed, leaning down to pick up his own drink from the floor. "Besides, it's _relief_. You, ah... you scared the shit out of us, when you didn't wake up. Okay, you scared the shit out of _me_. You know what Alim's like, and Wynne's not _that_ concerned, yet. I think Godwin's got a betting pool going, though. Asshole."  
  
"Godwin's making book on whether I wake up?" Anders snorted and sipped his soup. "Okay, you've convinced me. This has to be real, because that is _exactly_ Godwin, that Lucrosian fuck. I'm going to shove my foot up his ass until sovereigns fall out of his mouth, and he can fund my next holiday across the lake." He took another sip. "Maker, this is good. It tastes exactly like day-old potato soup is supposed to. It's just so ... here, you know? Which, I'm sure should make it suspect, but I'm too tired for that. If I didn't make it out, I'm already dead, and I might as well learn to live with it, especially if it looks the same as it did before."  
  
Karl choked on his drink. "Stop that. You sound like Alim."  
  
"Andraste forbid. He'd better not be right. I'll be so pissed." Anders managed to get an eye all the way open, glaring down into the cup of soup, before he looked up at Karl. "You are much too good-looking to be a demon, for the record."  
  
"Desire demon," Karl offered, with a suggestive eyebrow raise.  
  
"Not with that beard," Anders scoffed, his eye lifting warily to the approaching smear, behind Karl.  
  
"You're awake." The smear resolved into Alim, holding a platter of food, obviously mostly intended for himself and Karl, to judge from the contents. "Wynne says you should eat."  
  
"I'm eating, I'm eating." Anders noisily guzzled more soup, mashing the loosely congealed vegetables against the roof of his mouth, as he swallowed. After a pause, he belched loudly enough that the two apprentices standing at the other end of the room turned to look. "If you're here, does that mean you have soup that isn't a day old?"  
  
"It's not even a day old," Karl complained, holding up his hands. "It's from breakfast. It's just lunch, now."  
  
"Tastes like yesterday's," Anders muttered, stretching a wavering hand out in Alim's direction. "I'm supposed to be eating, right?"  
  
Alim set the tray on the edge of the bed, in the angle between Karl's knee and Anders's side. "I brought fruit and broth and cheese... I brought a little bit of everything, just in case. I was starting to think you'd finally found the way out."  
  
A hysterical laugh slipped out of Anders, as he picked up a chunk of cheese. "If only. Don't make me laugh, I'm trying to chew." The cheese disappeared, and then a chunk of bread, while Alim and Karl watched, Alim's face still and Karl's wavering between relief and concern. "Besides--" He stopped. He couldn't say anything about the test, in front of Alim, but he could say it differently and make Karl understand. "Besides, if that nightmare was 'out', I think I like it better in here."  
  
Karl's hand twitched against his thigh, but he didn't reach out for Anders. Not here. As far as anyone knew, Wynne had posted him to watch until Anders woke, and that was a privilege he'd play to the hilt.  
  
"Is this really the best show going, right now? You two have been watching me sleep for three days?" Anders raised an eyebrow as he crammed bread into his mouth, washing it down with broth.  
  
"I went to my lessons," Alim protested, mildly, darting a pointed look at Karl.  
  
"You've been here the whole time, haven't you?" Anders realised, as his eye settled on Karl's face.  
  
"Don't look at me like that. I got up to pee."  
  
Anders's other eye snapped open, and the change in perspective meant he couldn't focus either for a moment, but he stared at Karl until he could. "How many stamina potions, Karl?"  
  
"Enough." Karl looked away and laughed.  
  
"Wynne wouldn't let him do anything unsafe," Alim reassured Anders.  
  
"But, he didn't ask Wynne, did he? He looted _my_ stash." Anders's eyes stayed on Karl.   
  
"I'll replace them," Karl offered, with an apologetic shrug.  
  
"Who's going to replace you? Andraste's flaming knickers! What were you thinking?" Anders managed to raise his voice, and the apprentices at the other end of the room whispered to each other, watching.  
  
Karl's hands tightened, and he sipped from the cup he held. "I was thinking if you stopped breathing, I'd never forgive myself if I wasn't here. I was thinking if you woke up and didn't see anyone, I might never find out what happened to you."  
  
"You idiot." Anders sighed and rubbed his face, tiredly. "Get him some more water," he told Alim.  
  
"Anders..." Karl started, as Alim went to get a jug.  
  
"No, you're an idiot. How many of them did you drink, Karl?"  
  
Karl counted on his fingers, staring intently at the half-eaten tray of food between them, until he came to a conclusion. "Seven. I'm pretty sure it was seven."  
  
"Seven. _Seven_? Karl, that's how people die. Seven in three days?"  
  
"Sixteen hours, then one every eight, after. No more than that." Karl rubbed his eye and finished the drink he held.  
  
"Maker. Go to bed, Karl."  
  
"I'm not tired."  
  
"Because you're an _idiot_."


	4. Blood and Blood Lotus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alim decides he needs to improve upon his face. Anders is not thrilled with this idea, but decides it's better to help than to leave the elf to do it on his own. Mayhem ensues, because when does anything go according to plan?

"Andraste's tits, Elfhole, are you sure about this? It's not just three dots on the back of your neck, this time. You're talking about carving up most of your face!"

Of course, Anders was still trying to talk him out of it. He wouldn't have expected any less from the healer.

"My hands are steady, and I feel no pain. It's going to be beautiful. And you're going to make sure it stays that way, Roundear. We haven't been doing this for weeks, so you could flake out on me at the last moment." Alim rolled his eyes and kept grinding beetles and flowers into a fine powder. He'd managed to palm a bag of lyrium dust, while talking with some of the Tranquil runecrafters, a month or so, ago, once he'd figured out that lyrium would set the colours better. There were volumes written on tattooing, and Alim had at least skimmed most of them, over the last few years, before deciding he'd look better with the mark of the dead god on his face. Of course, which dead god that was depended on who you asked. The Dalish claimed it was Falon'Din, but Tevinter texts suggested otherwise. Not that he had much investment in a particular name, just that he intended to wear his truth openly.

He was, after all, already dead.

"That is a lot of lyrium to be putting under your skin," Anders protested. "And with blood lotus and --"

"We've done it before. Why does it bother you now?" Alim's gold eyes caught Anders's in the mirror. Weeks, they'd tried again and again, until they'd gotten a dye that wouldn't draw out in the healing, and a healing that wouldn't force out the dye.

"Before it was a few tiny dots. Now it's like a quarter of your face. That is a lot of area. That is a lot of dye. I'm really worried about you putting that much shit that could kill you under your skin at once."

"I can't die, Roundear. I'm already dead," Alim insisted.

"Then why do you even need a healer!?" Anders sounded terribly frustrated, which he was. This was a terrible idea, likely with horrible consequences.

"The illusions of life are hard to shake, it seems. I eat. I sleep. You heal me. But, I do not feel pain. I do not feel pleasure. I have no regret or remorse. The little signs of life are missing. I may be living, but I'm not alive." Alim picked up the last ingredient, a liquid stabiliser, and added a few drops to the bowl on the vanity. "Help me do this. Help me amaze the eyes of all who look upon me."

"You talk about yourself like you're a god," Anders grumbled, kicking a stool over to just behind where Alim sat before one of the dormitory vanities.

"So do you," Alim reminded him, picking up the glass blade, and comparing his face to the drawing stuck in the frame of the mirror.

The first cut was the hardest for Anders to watch -- the way Alim's hand didn't shake at all, as he carved the line into his flesh, blood spilling freely into the shallow tray on the vanity. Alim packed the wound with the dye paste and snapped his fingers at Anders, unwilling to move any of the muscles in his face, while he was working on it. Shaking his head, Anders did exactly what they'd practised, and the wound slowly settled into a deep purple line, just a little raised above the rest of Alim's skin. Alim winked at him, in the mirror, and wiped his face with a towel, before starting the next line.

Minutes blended together, the two of them working almost silently, listening for the approach of footsteps that would signal problems neither of them wanted to have. The last lines were the ones just under Alim's eyes, and Anders held his breath. Eyes. If Alim twitched, they were going to need to get Wynne. Anders couldn't do eyes. Just never got the hang of the structure. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms, until Alim snapped his fingers again, face still motionless, in the mirror. One more careful spell, and it was done.

Alim wiped his face again and examined the tray of blood. "Everyone's going to assume blood magic, if we leave this lying around," he said, finally realising exactly how much blood it really was.

Anders held up a finger and ducked out of the room and behind a screen in a corner of the dormitory, returning with a mostly-empty chamber pot, which he held out to Alim, with a smirk. "You know no one's going to notice."

"Thank you, ladies," Alim joked, carefully pouring the contents of the tray into the urn.

"Still got a towel," Anders pointed out, as Alim finished wiping a few dribbles of blood off the rest of his body and got dressed.

"You're a healer," Alim said, with a smile. "No one's going to ask. Besides, that's an awful lot of blood. Must have been something serious."

"Just so you know, I'm blaming it on you. If anyone asks, you broke your nose, and my work is amazing." Anders jabbed a finger at Alim. "Besides, no one can see your face for a couple of days. I'm pretty sure Wynne could still unset that, if it doesn't get time to soak in. Andraste's finely-crafted ass, you're out of your mind, Elfhole."

"When was I ever in it?" Alim's smile was profoundly unsettling, as usual.

* * *

"I knew we should have done this up here to begin with," Anders muttered, when he woke up to Alim dropping onto his bed, wide-eyed and sweating. "You've really done it this time, haven't you?"

"I can see the spaces between things. I can see the nature of words. I understand the magisters." Alim's voice flickered between amazement and vague discomfort. "Everything's possible, now, Roundear. I can feel it in my fingers." He held up his hands, and Anders just stared.

"You're really not okay, Elfhole." Anders breathed, sitting up to take a better look.

Alim's eyes were black pits with slim gold rims, and the lines on his face were reddish around the edges, burning hot to touch. His nightshirt was soaked through with sweat, and his hair was damp and tangled. The elf had either addled himself or this was the blood lotus. Or both. Or it was some other component in that dye. Anders couldn't remember what had finally ended up in it, just that lyrium dust and blood lotus had sounded like a horrible combination.

"I found it, you know. My name." Alim grinned wildly, sprawling back across Anders's lap, and tugging at the ends of his hair. "Fen'Din."

"Isn't that a god's name?" Anders asked, parts of his brain still struggling with the fact he'd been dragged out of a dead sleep for this.

Alim laughed and Anders clapped a hand over his mouth, only to get bit. "What need have I for gods? Everything is possible. Everything is ours."

The templars were going to kill him, Anders decided. The templars were going to kill them both. They were going to make them Tranquil. Both of them. And then kill them. That didn't even make sense, but it didn't have to make sense, there were templars in the hall, and they were both going to die, if Alim woke anyone up with his rambling.

"Look, Elfhole, I need you to stop talking a sec. I'm going to see if I can fix this," Anders grumbled, trying to sound less panicked than he looked.

"Tell me your name," Alim demanded.

"You know my name; you just never use it." Anders tried to draw the toxins out. He'd try to save the tattoos, if only because if he fucked them up, he knew Alim would insist on doing them again. But, that limited his options, somewhat. Somewhere, he had to have a potion that would help.

"I know what they call you. I don't know your name," Alim insisted, still holding on to Anders's hair. "Tell me your name."

"It's not important," Anders said, leaning over to pick through the drawers of his nightstand, as best he could. "Please don't wake anyone up. They'll make us both Tranquil."

"No one else matters. Just you and I. We are the beginning and the end of all things, Roundear." Alim's voice dropped to a whisper, thankfully. "Just tell me your name."

Anders had started to sweat, somewhere during this conversation, perhaps in terror of being found with a barely-clothed, completely-mad, teenage elf in his bed. If they survived this, he was going to push for a Harrowing for Alim. Not that his word meant much, but this kind of insanity had to be enough to fend off demons. That or Alim was already possessed. And that was a terrifying thought. A possessed necromancer. But, no. It had to be the blood lotus and the lyrium. Had to be.

"How can you rule the world, with no name?" Alim asked, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the hair behind Anders's ear. "How will you stand beside me, and oversee the lands beyond the ocean, with no true name? You know mine. I know mine, now. Who are you really, Roundear?"

"I'm Anders. You know that," Anders muttered, pushing a vial into Alim's other hand. "Drink that."

"They call you Anders. And they call me Alim. Who are you, really?" Alim purred, emptying the vial into his mouth and tossing it aside, as he stared up into Anders's eyes. "What dreams have you dreamed? What promises kept? And what is the name even _he_ doesn't call you?"

He. Him. Karl. Anders was going to have to back away, if Alim could see it. He'd been sloppy. _They'd_ been sloppy. It didn't matter that everyone knew what they were up to, when they slipped away. Really, if pretty much anyone was missing from where they'd last been seen, anyone with any sense would ask 'Where's Anders?' It was just that obvious. In fact, he'd gotten away with an awful lot of completely unrelated things, based on the assumptions that if he wasn't in the room, he was somewhere with his robes hiked up. But, Karl was different. Karl took care of him. Held him close and whispered words of revolution in his ear. He'd lain with more than half the tower, some of them Tranquil, now, and that wasn't going to stop, but he couldn't have it getting around that there was anything more than that. Ever. With anyone.

"Even who?" Anders scoffed, prodding at the coloured ridges on Alim's face.

"You know who." Alim's hand tightened until Anders was looking him in the eye. "What is so dear that you hide it even from him? I know you. I know the way the light itself loves you. But, I do not know your name. I want the feel of it in my mouth, when I commend you to the spirits. I want to know the taste of your soul."

"Alim--"

The hand that wasn't holding his hair leapt up and cracked across Anders's face, and for a moment, he was sure they'd been heard. He could hear Godwin roll over and snort, on the other side of the wall. Anders took a deep breath and rested his palm on Alim's cheek, drawing what poison he could to the surface. It would bruise. He knew that. He only hoped it wouldn't bleed much.

And then, Alim's shoulder and neck began to twitch, jaw and fingers clenching and unclenching in out of time to the jerking movements. Anders stopped thinking. He pulled the blanket around Alim and swung himself out of bed, with the elf in his arms. The templars in the halls could kiss his sleep-deprived ass; he was going upstairs.

Of course, the templars put a stop to that thought.

"What are you doing out of bed, troublemaker? Trying to get out again?"

"If I was trying to get out, I'd be headed downstairs, not upstairs, and I wouldn't be carrying a seizing elf. Either I'm going upstairs, or you're bringing down Enchanter Wynne. If neither of these things happens, you get to explain to the First Enchanter how you killed an apprentice. It's that simple." Anders towered over the templar. He towered over all the templars, or at least all the ones he'd met. Fereldans were so short.

"Or I could explain how you killed the apprentice, and then you'd stop being a pain in everyone's ass." The templar smirked and leaned back against the door.

"Karsten--"

"That's Ser Karsten, to you, robe."

"You're welcome to be a pain in _my_ ass, _Ser_ Karsten. All you have to do is bring down Wynne, so the apprentice doesn't die." Anders smiled and pulled his shoulders forward, hoping to look a little smaller. "I'll get down on my knees and you can do whatever you want. Take my magic, first, if it makes you feel better, but I think that's missing out on some of the best points of getting the bang-bang on with robe-trash like me. Just get Wynne. It's an _apprentice_. He's just a kid."

"Being a kid didn't make you any less of a shithead," Karsten pointed out.

"Nothing in the world will make me less of a shithead, and you know that. I will be King Shithead from beyond the grave." Alim convulsed in Anders's arms, nearly dropping himself on the floor, as Anders struggled to hold on to him. "I don't have time to be having this argument. You're going to move, or I'm going to move you. And if I have to move you, you don't get the happy fun time."

The blankets in Anders's arms started to drip, after a moment of silence. Karsten stepped aside and pulled the door open.

"You owe me, and I'll have it of you."

Anders darted through the door. "Of course you will, _Ser_ Karsten. Just like everyone else, before you."

* * *

Wynne was a great deal more amused than she let on. It had been a good many years since she'd been dragged out of bed for something quite this bizarre. The seizing was easy enough to quiet, once she found the pattern in it, and the rest... it had been many years since she'd seen a poison she couldn't recognise, and this would be no different.

"You can go back to bed, Anders. I can heal the boy without your help." It was an offer, and not a command.

"Not going anywhere." Anders sat down beside the cot, in the tower's little infirmary, and wrapped Alim's hand around a lock of his hair, again. "That's where we were when he dropped out, and that's where he's waking up."

"What were the two of you...?" Wynne gestured at Alim's face.

"What was he doing, you mean. I tried to talk him out of it, and if you clear out the dye, he's going to do it again." Anders shrugged, mostly unwilling to give up Alim's secrets. "It's some elf thing, I guess. He takes his elf shit pretty seriously. Elves, though. Never one of my strong points."

The look Wynne gave Anders said it all -- he was full of shit, she knew it, and she was going to let it go, at least for now. "What's in it?"

"Lyrium dust and blood lotus are the important parts." Anders held up his hands. "Don't ask. I had nothing to do with it. And he's not going to tell you."

"How much lyrium?" Wynne asked, pulling together a few bottles and measuring tools.

"Not enough. Do you know how hard it is to get lyrium dust, around here? Token amounts. It's the blood lotus. I'd bet my life on it. Maybe one of the metals, but I don't remember what they were. Something about dwarven metal dyeing." Anders shook his head. "It's the blood lotus. He was delusional, before he started seizing. Delusional and sweating. Eyes like pits into the Deep Roads."

"That does sound like blood lotus," Wynne agreed, measuring liquids into a bowl. "Good. That makes it easier."

"I gave him a basic detox. I keep them in my drawer in case of ... _accidents_." By which he meant 'apprentices trying to poison themselves, just to get out of this hole'.

"Where did you find him?" Wynne asked.

"In my bed. He made it up the stairs and woke me up." Anders shrugged. "Of all the things I might have been expecting, tonight, this was not one of them."

"Are you sure? He's very handsome, and you spend an awful lot of time together." Wynne looked pointedly at Anders, as she brought over the bowl. "Hold his mouth open for me."

Anders did as he was told. "I'm so sure. The last time I suggested he might be thinking it, he threatened to summon bees in my ass. It hasn't come up since."

"I can see where that might not be conducive to an enjoyable evening," Wynne admitted, drizzling the liquid into Alim's mouth and making sure he swallowed it. "Why you?"

"Because I'm stupid." Anders laughed and looked away. "I'm not as afraid of him as I should be."

"Maybe you know something the rest of them don't." A smile crossed Wynne's face. "I'm still not afraid of you, and I will never understand why anyone would be, now that you're in control of that ... unfortunate reflex. You're a good man, Anders, and we're lucky to have you. You'll take my place, one day. You know that, don't you?"

"Only if I don't get killed first!" Anders brushed Alim's hair back from his face. "Wynne?" He looked up. "I want to see him Harrowed. This year. Next week, if I thought the First Enchanter would go for it."

"That's... a very interesting choice, Anders. Not that it's yours to make." Wynne tidied the bottles away. "Why don't you tell me what you see?"

"I see a man who can't be tempted. Maker knows, I've tried." Anders laughed. "He just tilts his head like he doesn't understand the offer. There's nothing he wants, and when he does want, he just ... does things. I've never seen anyone so unconcerned with the way the world actually works."

"That's very dangerous. What makes you think he wouldn't be better off Tranquil?"

"The only thing about him, right now, that isn't already Tranquil is his sense of humour and his will. I don't think making him Tranquil would make him any less dangerous. In fact, I think it might make him more dangerous." Anders shrugged, opening and closing his mouth a few times around ideas that didn't quite make the cut. "I know, I know. Tranquil aren't dangerous. That's their purpose. But, you don't know Alim -- well, no, I suppose you do know Alim. Someone must have been putting him back together before I was here to do it."

"I do know him, yes. And I do know what you're referring to." Wynne sat down, on the other side of the cot. "He doesn't want to change, does he?"

"No. He's embraced it. The templars think he's a monster, and the only way he's going to make it is Harrowed." Holding Alim's hand, Anders watched the elf's face. "He's not a monster. They're wrong. He's just... mad. He has no intentions of escaping this place. He thinks he's already dead, and there's nothing out there -- that the only world that exists is in here, until he figures out how to shape the world with his mind. He thinks it's the Fade, you know, and this is a test to see if he's worthy, yet. ... Speaking of Harrowings. Yet another reason I think he'd be a perfect candidate. He's already in the middle of one, as far as he knows."

"I remember yours," Wynne said, quietly. "Do you remember how sick you got, from it?"

"I try not to remember any of it. I still have nightmares." One deep breath and then the next. But, Wynne knew the more calm Anders looked, the more upset he was.

"And you would bring this on him?"

"It won't be the same for him. It's not the same for any of us, but I think he's going to come out of it better than I did. He's either going to come out laughing or dead, no matter when he goes in, and I don't think waiting is going to improve the circumstances or his grip on reality."

"And you don't think his poor grip on reality is a reason for him to be made Tranquil?"

"I don't think Tranquility is going to solve that problem. I'm not sure death will solve that problem, except by making the delusion real. The templars talk about us as if we're weapons. We're not. He is. He's exactly what a Circle Mage is meant to be, and now that they're seeing it, they're afraid of him. He's remorseless. He's got no attachments, if you don't count spiced nug ham. And he's got no interest in blood magic. The amount of blood I've seen him just... ignore. He can't feel it, so it's meaningless to him. He's much more interested in getting traded to one of the Nevarran circles, where his talents would be less disgusting, but he's not convinced Nevarra is real."

"That's absurd."

Anders took one of Alim's hands in both of his own. "Yes. It is. That's the thing. Most of the madness is just absurd. It's foolishness. It's not going to make him any less responsible with his magic. Although I think I've met the height of his irresponsibility, and you rescued me from it."

"Was that what the bees were about?" Wynne's eyes sparkled at the memory.

"The bees were the last time I suggested he was trying to hike my skirts." Anders looked substantially less amused.

"He was twelve!" Wynne laughed.

"I was sixteen! It made sense at the time!" Anders shook his head. "Now he's sixteen. I want to see him Harrowed."

"I'll discuss it with the First Enchanter. I have my doubts, but I'll discuss it with him," Wynne conceded, standing up again. "Are you staying?"

"As long as it takes."

"Then I am going back to bed. I'm too old for this sort of late-night nonsense." Patting Anders on the head, Wynne headed for the door. "He should be fine, once he wakes up. If he's not, you know where I'll be."

"Yes, Enchanter." Anders leaned back, hooking his foot on the cot for balance. "Thanks, Wynne. For him, too."

"We'll see how thankful you are in the morning, when I've slept and you're still sitting here." With a sly smile, Wynne left, pulling the door shut, behind her.

* * *

After a couple of hours, Anders fell asleep with his head on Alim's chest, folded nearly in half from the chair he sat in. He woke up to a pain in his back and a questioning voice in his ear.

"Roundear? What...?" Alim reached for his own face, first, relieved to feel the lines still raised.

"Mmmh? Hey, Elfhole. Scared the shit out of me, last night." Anders huffed against Alim's chest, not moving his head or much of anything else, until he figured out how to heal his back without having to move his arm.

"I came to see you. Everything was beautiful. I don't remember anything after that." Alim tangled his fingers absently in Anders's hair.

"You went into convulsions and pissed yourself in front of a templar. Nothing serious," Anders scoffed, still not moving.

A ghost of a laugh drifted out of Alim. "How did you get us up here?" He recognised the infirmary.

"Don't ask me things you don't want me to tell you," Anders said, quietly. A flash of healing preceded him actually trying to sit up, but finding himself still tangled up with Alim's hand. "What, do you want to kiss me, now, too?" he teased.

"One of these days, I'm going to say yes, just to see your face."

"Speaking of things you don't want the answer to..." Anders waited, but Alim's grip on his hair didn't abate. "I'm _going_ to kiss you if you don't let go of my hair, Elfhole."

"Tell me a secret, Roundear." It wasn't an unusual request, especially after some foolish thing that ended better than it had any right to, but the way Alim asked always made Anders's blood run cold, and this time was no different.

Anders waited, much too long for anyone else, but Alim had the patience of a saint. "Ket," he said, finally, almost silently, with no explanation. He hadn't spoken the word or heard it in about eight years, and it felt strange on his tongue.

Alim's eyes dimmed as flashes of the night before danced and flickered behind them. "Ket," he repeated, just as quietly, the single syllable lingering on his tongue like a splash of cream. "Yes. You are. I recognise you, Ket."

"You know and I know." Anders breathed the formula as if it might have meaning, but Alim had never revealed anything Anders had told him, at times like these. Anders hadn't shared, either. The secrets kept him sane. The little things that no one knew.

"You know and I know," Alim promised. "My face--?"

"You're the same fuck-ugly elf as when you went to bed," Anders joked, and Alim yanked his hair, before finally letting go. "I wouldn't let Wynne clean it out. I told her if she did, you'd just do it again."

"And the templar?"

"Didn't see your face. I didn't even tell him which apprentice you were, just that you were one. They might figure it all out, eventually, but I'm kind of hoping they're too blighted daft to fit all the pieces together." Anders tried to stand up and sat right back down. He healed himself again. "I know what that tin bucket was thinking, all the same. It's the same thing that always gets me out of trouble."

"That's disgusting." Alim gave Anders a flat look.

"That just saved your life," Anders replied.

"I wish." Alim laughed. "Take me downstairs. I'm still dizzy and this cot is terrible. We'll fit in your bed, won't we? You're a healer. You were up seeing Enchanter Wynne in the middle of the night. No one's going to dare make more of it than that."

"Really? You want to try to fit in my bed?" Anders groaned. "You want me to carry you back down the stairs, and put you in _my_ bed? The bed I'm going to try to sleep in?"

"When you put it like that it sounds like such a big deal," Alim huffed. "Come on, Roundear."

"Wynne should see you, before--"

"I will sing the Nevarran anthem at the top of my lungs." Alim did not appear to be joking. A moment passed and he took a long breath.

"I'll leave Wynne a note." Anders decided, doing so, before he wrapped the clean, but thin, infirmary blanket around Alim, and carried him out. He really did mean to keep an eye on the kid for a bit, and it would be so much more comfortable, if he could finally stretch out.


	5. Temptations of the Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Din walked into and out of his Harrowing, with the same lack of expression he applied to so many things.

Fen'Din sat on the edge of the bed, sipping tea and eyeing Anders and Karl quizzically. "I just don't understand what the big deal is. I travelled a bit and sang a song for some spirits. They wanted me to stay, of course, but I knew you'd both be upset if I didn't come back. It's very pleasant, there. I'm not sure why you both had such trouble. Expectations, no doubt." He gestured pointedly at the stone walls around them.  
  
"Elfhole, they just threw you to the demons, same as they did with us -- same as they did with anyone not still in the dorms. It's ... not supposed to be _pleasant_ ," Anders pointed out, looking no less horrified than when Fen'Din had walked down the stairs from the Harrowing Chamber, entirely under his own power, rattling on at the templars to either side of him.  
  
"All parts of the Fade are built on belief, dreams, and expectations. They frightened you into believing it would be terrible." Fen'Din finished the tea and went to stand up for more, but Anders put a hand on his head to keep him seated.  
  
"No heroics." Anders grumbled, gesturing with his chin for Karl to get the pot off the desk.  
  
"I'm not sure the Harrowing works like that," Karl said, rocking his chair back to reach the pot, and then pouring more tea into the empty cup. "It's not our beliefs and expectations that matter. The enchanters build a world for us, in there."  
  
"Yeah, but the demons know us, Karl. You can't get away from that," Anders pointed out. "They get into our heads to find out what we are, and where we'll break."  
  
"Which would suggest he can't be broken, and you and I both know that's not true." Karl shrugged, staring thoughtfully at the teapot, before he leaned around behind Anders to pull another cup off the bedside table. "Godwin can kiss my ass," he said, holding it up, before he filled it for himself.  
  
"Shit, is that Godwin's? I've been drinking from it." Anders's face crinkled in disgust as he stuck out his tongue and wiped it with his hand. That didn't help, and with an even further disgusted look, he leaned over and licked Karl's face.  
  
"Kick him for me," Karl told Fen'Din, cocking his head at Anders.  
  
Fen'Din did so, one small foot connecting sharply with Anders's knee.  
  
"Ow!" Anders complained. "Kick me, yourself, next time! He can't tell how hard he's kicking!"  
  
Fen'Din failed to look contrite, though it was impossible to determine if that was intentional or just laziness, with the way his face remained as blank as it so often was.  
  
"Anyway, the point is, we had _harrowing_ Harrowings, and he didn't." Karl sipped his tea from Godwin's cup. "And I don't think that was intentional -- have you ever heard of the enchanters giving someone a break? This is supposed to prove we can't be tempted."  
  
The expression fell off Anders's face, as the realisation dawned behind his eyes. "He can't be tempted. Of _course_ , he can't. What are the demons going to offer him, boiled eggs and honey?"  
  
"They offered me a lovely home in their kingdom," Fen'Din cut in, "and freedom from the lords of this realm. It _was_ tempting. It's very pleasant, there. Rolling fields like the pictures of the Tevinter countryside, before the Blight; an orchard of twenty kinds of fruits; birds everywhere; a little mud-brick house with grass on the roof. I could have stayed. I might have, if I thought you could join me. But, I think if I don't get you out with me, you may never leave at all. Particularly you, Roundear."  
  
Anders rolled his eyes. "Thanks, but I can leave without your help."  
  
"It's the coming back he has a problem with," Karl teased, leaning to the side and bumping his head against Anders's shoulder. "You have to stop that, you know. They'll kill you, one of these days."  
  
"They'll kill me _anyway_." Anders snorted and rolled his eyes.   
  
"You're already dead," Fen'Din said, as he had a thousand times before. "They can't kill you; they can only send you away."  
  
"And considering even you wouldn't stay away..." Anders shoved the bed with his foot.  
  
"Fine, it wouldn't be the ideal situation."  
  
"I still can't believe nothing tried to kill you, in there," Anders huffed, changing the subject back.  
  
"Of course they did," Karl corrected him. "It was just more subtle."  
  
"Please." Anders snorted. "I got despair, you got pride, and he got what, compassion?"  
  
"Desire." Karl offered a small smile. "It was pleasant. The demons offered him what he most wanted, and all he'd have to do was stay with them. Of course, lucky us, he likes us better, though Andraste only knows why."  
  
"I know why I like you better." Anders's eyebrows arced up suggestively, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "But, I'm sure it's not the same reason."  
  
"He's just had his Harrowing! Don't be gross!" Karl laughed, a light dusting of pink across the top of his cheeks as he pressed one wrist to his eyes, still holding the teapot. "It's hard enough, without you--"  
  
"As the healer, I can promise you I'm not making him any harder." Anders smiled wryly, watching Karl from the corner of his eye.  
  
Fen'Din kicked Anders in the knee, again.  
  
"Ow! What was that for?"  
  
"Well, I knew he was going to tell me to do it again." Fen'Din held out his cup for more tea. "Do you really need to ask that question, Roundear?"  
  
"You had that coming," Karl agreed, topping off the cup.  
  
"There are exactly no situations in which I have had a kick in the knee coming!" Anders protested. "Maybe a jaunty slap on the ass, but I've got to draw a line somewhere!"  
  
"A jaunty slap on the ass?" Karl snorted and shot Anders a wry look. "The point is to discourage this behaviour, not encourage it."  
  
"That is enough! That is-- Well -- I--" Anders folded his arms and huffed.  
  
"... resemble that remark," Fen'Din finished, and Anders glared.  
  
"You're an ass."  
  
"The number of slaps I haven't received would suggest otherwise." Fen'Din managed a smile.  
  
Karl choked on his tea, dribbling it down the front of his robes as he coughed, both hands still full, until Fen'Din took the teapot. Anders reached over and pressed a hand to his chest, a faint glow emanating from his fingers, and after a moment, Karl's breathing stabilised.  
  
"Don't inhale tea. I'd say you're not a fish, but I'm pretty sure even fish die when they breathe tea." Anders rolled his eyes. "Still, whether or not you're an ass, you're definitely fresh from a Harrowing and still making shitty jokes. How are you not unconscious?"  
  
"I just said I didn't use much magic," Fen'Din reminded him.  
  
"Yeah, I know that mattered for mine, but I slept for three days. Most people at least need a nap, get carried out after they answer the questions at the end." Anders shook his head. "They sent you to the Fade!"  
  
"To a different part of the Fade. And why would I need a nap? They say the Fade is where we go when we sleep. They say I've been to the Fade. I've travelled to the land of dreams and had a lovely time."  Fen'Din paused and levelled faintly amused eyes in an expressionless face at Anders. "Isn't that what sleeping's for?"  
  
"That is the most completely fucked up line of reasoning I think I've heard, since the last time Godwin opened his mouth." Karl blinked a few times, still brushing beaded tea off from where it hadn't yet soaked into the water-resistant cloth.  
  
"And yet, here he is, not unconscious," Anders pointed out. "I really don't know what to do with that. I know he sleeps. He sleeps more than I do."  
  
"Anders, very few things are alive that sleep less than you do." Karl considered that for a moment. "Which might also have something to do with why you spent three days unconscious."  
  
"That is absolutely..." Anders stopped in the middle of his complaint, and considered it, before shaking his head and continuing. "Unlikely. If that were it, I'd be doing it more often. That was the first and probably last time. Sleeping for three days once every eighteen years doesn't add up to anything like enough to compensate for the amount of staying up all night I've done in that time."  
  
"I don't know how you get by." Karl shook his head, as he did every time the subject came up.  
  
"Beer and potatoes and extremely handsome company." Anders grinned slyly and cocked his thumb at Fen'Din. "I mean him, of course. That beard is horrible on you. You look forty."  
  
"And yet, you'll still kiss me."  
  
"Yeah, and I kiss templars, too." Anders raised an eyebrow and laughed.  
  
Fen'Din's stomach chose that moment to make a loud sound of complaint.  
  
"Party?" Anders asked, eyeing Karl.  
  
"Cakes," Fen'Din declared, attempting to get off the bed, only to have Anders push him down again. "Cakes and boiled eggs. Oooh, and honey-cream with yams."  
  
"I'm going to keep him sitting down," Anders said, hand still on Fen'Din's head. "Do you have enough hands?"  
  
"No, but I'm sure I can borrow a Tranquil. 'The healer working on the latest Harrowing survivor needs to feed his patient.'" Karl offered a small smile. "Don't set anything on fire, Anders. I'll be right back."


	6. An Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karl/Anders. Alim thinks he's funny. Mostly because he actually is.

Anders was with Karl -- sweet, funny, amazing Karl who had to kneel on a book for the added height, to get into him. They shouldn't have been on their knees in the library, but the Nevarran analyses of ancient Tevinter religious practises was not a popular subject, and it was as close to privacy as they were going to get. And standing was right out. Anders was just too tall for that.

And so, they knelt on the floor to satisfy themselves with each other, which was much less dangerous than lying on the floor, all told. It was easier to hide this. To recover from it, at the sound of heavy boots.

Silence was key, of course, doubly so in that they were in a library. The sound of pages turning was louder than their breathing, except for a few sharp gasps from Anders, that none of the mages would admit to having heard. Most of them wouldn't have heard, anyway.

And then there was Alim.

"Such a screamer, roundear!" he whispered, slinking around the corner of a bookcase, light ginger hair tied to itself in the back, to reveal the relatively-recent deep violet tattoos on his face. He trailed his golden-brown fingers through Anders's dirty-blond hair. "Maybe I should shut you up, hmm?"

Karl looked at Alim like he couldn't possibly be serious, and Alim just winked slyly, before turning his smirk back to Anders's sweat-speckled face.

"Want to shove something in my mouth, do you, elfhole?" Anders looked up and flicked his tongue across his lower lip, grinning wickedly at just about the right height.

"Yeah, I do," Alim purred, stepping closer, one hand tugging up the front of his skirts, while the other hand reached behind him.

And that was the thing, Karl reflected. Alim was up to something. The elf had never shown any interest in sex. Not with men, women, elves, humans... Just no interest with anything available in the tower, including and perhaps especially Anders. Not so much that Anders had been trying so much as that Anders would bend over for anything with two legs and a heartbeat that looked slightly interested. No, this was something else.

"Give it to me," Anders panted, quietly, putting out his tongue nearly far enough to lick his chin, as he opened his mouth.

Alim moved faster than anything short of a spider really had a right to. In seconds, he'd whipped a knotted bandage around Anders's head and tied it into his mouth.

"Er hrrt yrr," Anders muttered, glaring up at the amused elf gently glittering above him.

"No you don't." Alim caressed Anders's cheek, fondly. "Thank me later, after you don't get caught." He winked at Karl, who was losing a fight against a wheezy laugh, and flitted back around the corner to pull a book off the shelf and slouch against the bookcase to read it.

"Frr rp rn frrk mrr," Anders grumbled, and Karl tried his best to get back to where they had been, quietly snickering, all the while.


	7. Fireballs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Candles sets shit on fire. Anders tries not to pass out. Karl to the rescue.

Anders leaned in the doorway of the practise room he'd booked for himself, watching the young elf girl who'd either had it right before him or, knowing her, just snuck in while no one was looking. Fireballs, he thought, after she shot a spray of flame that lit the hit indicators on three of the targets, but left her swearing vividly.

"Didn't I tell you how to do that, last week?" he asked, not moving.

"Well, it was stupid advice and it didn't work," she snarled, turning on him, clearly with no intention of leaving until she either passed out or got it right.

Anders sighed and stepped into the room, casting a spell to reset the targets. "If I can do it, you can do it," he told her. "And they almost made me Tranquil, so..."

" _You?_ " The girl looked utterly stunned, eyes wide as she stopped flexing her fingers and looking for the next shot. "That's stupid. No, you're just lying so I'll feel better."

"I didn't have any control. The Enchanters thought I was dangerous." Anders stretched out his arm and flicked his hand, ice seizing each target in the row, individually. "First Enchanter wouldn't let them do it, and Wynne made sure they wouldn't have to. I mean, not to say I don't still give them a great excuse, a few times a year, but I've done my Harrowing, so they can't."

"Yeah, great, but that's ice. That doesn't prove anything." As she rolled her eyes at him, her pointed ears lowered in irritation.

Anders drew up his shoulders, trying to hide the sickened look in his eyes at the thought of an intentional flame. "Fine. Reset them, and I'll show you."

This was never easy. The flames still scared him, and the more afraid he got, the less control he had, but he was a grown man and he could damn well demonstrate technique for an apprentice. He watched the targets reset, trying to keep the sweat out of his hands, while the girl watched him. He took a long, slow breath and lobbed the first fireball, a contained sphere of flame that hit exactly where he'd meant it to. Another breath and he moved on to the next target, heart pounding in his ears, as he did it again.

The girl watched him make his way through the entire line of targets, face pale and stiff, his other hand clenched at his side. He could almost manage, now, in a controlled environment. The practise room was one of the safest places, if he lost his grip on the flames -- there was nothing that could actually burn except himself and the girl, and she was smart enough to run. But, he didn't slip. The demonstration was flawless, exactly the way Wynne had taught him.

"And you look like you've been swallowed down and shit out by a dragon. Is that supposed to look easy?" The girl huffed again and reset the targets, irritation even clearer on her face.

"Yeah, it is. I told you, it looks bad because I don't have as much control as you do. You haven't set the entire room on fire, by accident, so if this is you being terrible at it, you're already a step ahead of me, when I was your age." Anders stopped and looked at the girl again. Elves were always a bit difficult to guess. "I think. What is your age, anyway?"

"Twelve. And my _name_ is Anwen, not that you asked."

"You're right. I didn't ask. I also didn't ask what you're doing in my practise room." Anders fluttered his eyelashes and smiled tartly. "Anders. Twenty-one. And you knew that, didn't you."

Disgust flashed across her face, as the whispers she'd heard in the halls finally attached themselves to a face -- to the man trying to help her with her lessons.

"I know, I'm much prettier than you'd think from the stories," Anders joked, realising that maybe she hadn't known. "It's just because Wynne keeps putting my face back on. I think she makes me better looking every time."

"Actually, I was thinking you're kind of ... gawky, for someone 'everyone wants'." Anwen drew the quotes in the air with her fingers. "You're really the best there is to offer here?"

"I am way, _way_ too old for you to be thinking that about. _Alim_ is too old for you to be thinking that about. I don't even know the names of any apprentices your age. Well, no. Maybe Keili? I think she's young. _Wynne_ 's student, though, which is the only reason I know her." Anders threw his hands up and shook his head. "Not the point. The point is you're starting from a better place, so it'll be easier for you than it is for me."

"This is shemshit," Anwen huffed.

"You know, you can take my advice, or you can get out of the room I've got booked, so I can get on with this experiment. Either way." Anders shrugged, dismissively.

"So, how's -- that is not the glyph I was expecting to see," came a voice from the open door, behind them.

"Karl? Anwen, who hijacked my practise room." Anders introduced them, his opinion of the situation clear on his face. "Anwen, this is Karl, who has the patience of an Anointed for absolutely no explicable reason."

"Accept the inevitable," Karl teased, "and nothing matters in the moment."

"I'll _kick_ you in the moment," Anders muttered. "What do you know about fireballs?"

"Wait, you're teaching her fireballs?" An amazed smile lit Karl's face, and he stepped into the room, pulling the door closed after himself. "This I've got to see."

Anders looked outraged and then stuck out his tongue. "Fine. Be that way."

"Right, so, he really doesn't know shit about fireballs, then?" Anwen sighed, folding her arms.

"No, he's a master of fireballs," Karl corrected. "He just hates fire."

She looked up at Anders. "That's stupid."

"I know you are, but what am I?" Anders retorted, still trying to shake the intense discomfort of performing fire with observers, instead of just trying to put it out before anyone noticed. "Karl, c'mere and show her I'm right. Fireballs down the line."

Karl cocked his head and judged the distance, and without moving from the corner he stood in, lit all of the targets, one after another, in almost the same way Anders had done it. "You all right?" he asked Anders, when he was done.

"Yeah, fine," Anders lied, breathing too quickly and looking like he might need to sit down. "See? Same thing, only it's actually easy for him, like it's going to be for you."

"Oh, sure. What did _you_ manifest?" Anwen pointed at Karl.

"Spirit," Karl admitted, shrugging. "So, not really my speciality. Him, though..."

"Fire." Anders's grin was brittle. "Technically, it is my speciality. Technically. Hate it. You know what I like _and_ I'm good at? Creation."

"He's a healer, not that you'd know to look at him," Karl joked, leaning against the wall again.

"You mean because it hasn't turned my hair white?" Anders drawled. "Not everyone's spirit has the fashion sense of Wynne's."

Anwen turned back to the targets and spread her hand, the room filling with a static crackle, before lightning struck all but two of the targets, not quite simultaneously, but quickly.

Karl smoothed the static out of his beard, with one hand. "Not bad."

"I don't even need fire," Anwen complained. "If you hit something with enough lightning, it'll catch fire."

"Yeah, but you need to pass the elementals, same as we did. Everyone's got to pass the elementals," Anders reminded her. "Which, sure, is dumb, but the majority of magical accidents are elemental accidents, so you either pass the elemental exam, or they make you Tranquil. You've got a while, though. Years, probably. I didn't even get here until I was twelve, and I'm..." He laughed. "I'm an actual Harrowed mage, if you can believe it."

"I was there. It's true," Karl volunteered, holding up a hand.

"Where did you transfer from?" Anwen asked, trying out the gesture Anders had used for the fireballs, without casting anything.

The room fell silent, for a moment.

"I didn't."

"You were _twelve_?" Anwen looked horrified.

"That's the face I made," Anders joked, looking for any excuse to change the subject. "So, come on. Fireball. Give it a try. I know you can start it, but the trick with a ball is to stop it, too."

Anwen tried again and Anders stumbled back a few steps, pale. She was still getting a jet of flame, instead of a fireball.

"Wynne's way?" Karl asked, watching Anwen try to shape the fire.

"Yeah," Anders agreed, waiting for Anwen to stop before he got near her. "Okay, so, this is going to sound even stupider, but breathe. Let your breathing control the flame. And once you've got it so it swells when you breathe out and backs off when you breathe in, shout the fire at the target. The burst should last as long as your breath out, so you should just get a ball if you yell 'ha' at it. Still gotta aim with your arm, though -- straight out from the shoulder."

"You're right, that does sound pretty stupid," Anwen agreed, and Anders shot an exasperated look at Karl, who stepped away from the wall.

"Here, watch," Karl offered, giving Anders time to back up, before he lit a flame in his hands. "Breathe in." He took a deep breath and the flame clung close to his palms. "Breathe out." And he did as he spoke the words, the flame blooming in his hands. 

After a few more repetitions, he thrust a hand toward the targets, shouting, "Ha!"

A perfect fireball bloomed with the sound, and then collided with the target in front of him.

"After a while, you don't need the help, but you have to teach the magic what you mean by 'fireball', before it knows what you're asking. As far as it can tell, you're trying to put fire over there, and that's what it's giving you. Form is a very mortal concept. It doesn't always translate well."

"He does philosophy of magic in his spare time," Anders cut in. "Can you tell?"

"Seriously?" Anwen's eyebrows arched up.

"Torrin's taking one of my theses to Cumberland, next year," Karl admitted, with a small smile, ducking his head shyly. "It's what I came here to tell you, before I got distracted."

"Cumberland!?" Anders's eyes widened, a gleeful smile breaking across his face as he grabbed Karl by both shoulders and bounced up and down, shaking him with excitement. "Cumberland!"

"It's not me! I'm not going! Just Torrin's presenting some of my work," Karl demurred, with a breathy laugh, swatting at Anders's arms.

Anders turned to Anwen, one hand still on Karl's shoulder, and jabbed him in the ribs with the other hand. "Do you see this prick, Anwen? He's going to make Enchanter before he's thirty-five. Easy. He could do it in his sleep. I bet he's not even thirty when they make the offer."

Anwen shifted uncomfortably, realising she'd just stumbled into two rather advanced mages doing rather serious work, who'd taken the time out to try to help her. It was far more imposition than she'd intended, but it just hardened her resolve -- she'd prove she was worth the trouble. She'd pass her elemental exams with her eyes shut, and no one could ever say she wasn't good enough, even if she was an elf.

"Cumberland's nice and all, but hold out for Val Royeaux. I heard the Orlesians like to keep fancy mages with the Emperor's family. I heard they even let them _outside_."

Anders coughed and looked down. "Sorry."

"It's his fault, you know," Karl clarified. "We used to go out every week until Anders decided he was swimming to shore."

"And I did, I'll have you know." Anders jabbed a finger into Karl's side, and Karl squeaked in the least dignified possible fashion. "I swam all the way to shore, and had a fine week in Ferelden proper."

"By which he means he got sick and didn't have any potions, spent the whole time cold and wet, and when they dragged him back, he had a fever you could fry an egg with." Karl laughed. "He was just starting out as a healer. The timing was terrible."

"Shut up. At least I made it across the lake," Anders huffed, rolling his eyes and finally letting go of Karl to fold his arms. "Anyway, come on. Fireball. Whoever's got this room after me isn't going to be such a pushover."

Anwen cupped her hands and called the fire, as Karl had done, brow buckled as she tried to convince the fire to move with her. Behind her, Anders edged back, a healing spell clinging to his fingertips, and Karl counted Anwen's breaths aloud. Moments passed before the flame fell into the rhythm, but when Anwen breathed faster, it followed. When she slowed, it slowed too, and she smiled excitedly at Karl, who raised his eyebrows and pointed at the first target.

"Ha!" Anwen shouted, and the fireball was not small, but it was definitely a ball, this time.

Anders's eyes glazed over and his breathing slowed, as he watched the enormous flame strike the target, the flame lingering in his eyes long after it had faded.

"See?" Karl asked, eyes still on Anwen.

"I did it!" Anwen looked at her hands in amazement. "It's a real fireball! And I hit the target!"

"You just work on that, and it'll get even easier," Karl assured her, backing toward where Anders had pressed himself against the wall. "We'll be right here, in case anything goes wrong, right Anders?"

"Yeah." Anders's voice was small and distant. "Got a healer right here."

"Is he all right?" Anwen asked, squinting intently at Anders.

Anders held up one thumb.

"Like I said, he hates fire." Karl shrugged and put an arm around Anders, following it with a shield spell, and feeling Anders relax slightly. "You practise. We'll be fine."

"If he faints, it's not my fault," Anwen warned, glaring suspiciously at Karl.

"Andraste's tits aflame, I'm not going to faint!" Anders protested, sounding a little more like himself. "I'm just going to stand back here, away from the targets."

"It's not my _aim_ I have a problem with," Anwen huffed, turning back to the targets and starting over. This time, she hit all of them with a quick sequence of giant fireballs, punctuated by Karl's cheers and weak applause from Anders.


	8. The Joy of Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elfhole does not understand why anyone, ever, would want to put their mouth on someone else.

Anders was leaned over a book, reading slowly, the quill in one hand sketching something described but not depicted in the text. He missed the footsteps behind them, registering them only long enough to determine they weren't heavy enough to be templar boots, so the first hint of company he had was the flicker of tongue against his cheek. He smiled and finished the line he was drawing, already speaking, before he looked up.

"Mmm, hey, did you sha--" He blinked. That wasn't Karl. That wasn't Karl at all. "Andraste's drippy knickers, Elfhole! What are you-- That's my face!"

"Of course it is." Surana stared at the ceiling, a contemplative look on his face, as if he were trying to decide something.

"You just walked up and licked my face. That's... not something you do. That's not even really something anyone does." Anders squinted at the elf in confusion. "Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to tell me what the piss you're doing?"

"Oh, I... It's nothing important. I was just curious." Surana shook his head and smiled at Anders. "You taste interesting. Not like my hand. I'm still deciding if I like that taste."

"What... Why does it matter what I taste like?" Anders's quill rested, leaking, on the half-finished drawing, but his mind was just not on his work any longer.

Surana shrugged and rocked back on his heels, studying the fall of light against the stone wall, like he tended to, whether he was paying attention or not. "After all the time Karl spends with his tongue on you, I wondered if you tasted good. I like things that taste good."

"You could have tried asking him or any of the other, what, forty people here who have had their tongues on me, recently!" Anders blinked and finally set his quill back on the rest, so he could get up, rubbing his inky hand across his forehead, not for the first time, that afternoon.

"But, that wouldn't have told me much. They don't like the things I like, necessarily. 'Good' is very subjective. Very personal," Surana explained, as if it made perfect sense -- which it did, to him.

"Personal? So's walking up and licking people's faces!"

"I didn't think you'd mind." Surana looked at Anders, inquisitively.

"It's the kind of thing you ask before you do," Anders pointed out.

"Karl doesn't ask you," Surana pointed out.

"Yeah, but I kind of expect it from Karl. Not _that_ , but things like it. I thought you were him, for a second. Thought he'd shaved off that stupid beard." Anders shook his head and stepped back, crouching on the bench he'd been sitting on, not quite sitting on the edge of the table. "I don't expect it from you."

"I thought we were as close, you and I, as you and him."

"We are! It's just... different. You're not him. You're not even interested in the other half of what goes on between me and him -- except apparently you are. When did that happen?" Anders was having trouble with the idea of Surana taking an interest in what was, for him, at least something sexual.

Surana sat on the edge of a half-height map-case. "I look out for you. I see what the two of you do, even if I don't understand it. And _you_... I _can't_ understand it. I don't have what I need to understand what you feel. But, I thought maybe I could understand what he tasted. Why he likes to open his mouth to you. The whole thing's just bizarre to me. I know what tongues taste like. I have one. I tried licking my hand, but that didn't answer the question, really. So, I figured perhaps it was something about you. That you were particularly delicious. I know you're not the only ones who kiss, but you were the only one I thought I could ... well ... taste."

"Okay, that's fair. Licking me is a pretty common entertainment around here," Anders joked. "But, it's not really about the taste. It's about the things you can't feel. And Maker, but I have tried. I can't fix it, Elfhole. _Wynne_ can't fix it."

"It's not broken. That's why you can't fix it. I'm just dead, Roundear. It's not that important." Surana shrugged and watched the walls again. One day, he'd understand them, and they'd part for him. "I'm just trying to ... It's a thing. People do it. And it bothers me, because even when I read about it, there's not enough on the page. There's nothing there. I know the words, but they don't have proper meanings. They're abstracts. I'm just... I don't understand, and I want to, because you usually look so happy -- you. Specifically you. I trust your judgement. And you have this thing, and it makes you happy, and I don't really want it, but it bothers me that I can't even understand why you want it, why it makes you happy."

"I'm stuck," Anders admitted, trying to rub the drying ink off his fingers. "If you want me to kiss you, I'll do it. I'll teach you how it's done, but I know you're not going to get the same thing out of it that I do -- or that anybody else does. I mean, look at it this way, it's something people do despite the taste of the inside of their mouths, when they wake up. People actually kiss in the morning. So, it's not a taste thing."

"That sounds horrible. Why would you put more foulness into your mouth?" Surana looked completely grossed out.

"Because it's not about the taste. It's about the sensation. A good taste is nice, when you can get it, but most of the time, it's the taste of the inside of your mouth times two, compounded by whatever else they've had in their mouth, lately. Which, really, isn't that good, a lot of the time. Like I said, Elfhole, it's _really_ not about the taste." Anders rubbed his face again, trying to figure out how to explain the point of kissing -- at least kissing -- to a man who lacked the capacity for the pleasures of touch and had no desire for physical closeness except when he didn't mean to be heard. Or when he was wasted out of his mind. "I'm going to make some really bad comparisons and hope they help."

"I'm always in favour of you abusing language for your own ends and mine." Surana flicked a hand and a skeletal mouse scurried out from a bookcase and settled on his foot.

"Imagine something you really like to eat. I don't know what kind of pleasure you get from food, but I know you get it. We're not writ the same way around. My food pleasures are... elsewhere, I think. But, think of that feeling. Not the best thing you've ever put in your mouth, but something you wouldn't mind having a couple times a day."

Surana nodded. "That's not hard."

"Now, imagine that you could get that sensation from touch, instead of just from taste. That you could have it if someone rubbed their finger across your lips."

"That entire concept bothers me on some deep level, but I can almost see the appeal. People are much more distressing than food."

"People are fucking horrifying, and may you never come to know them like I know them." A brittle smile crossed Anders's face. "Now, imagine that someone else can feel the same sort of thing, so you kiss, and find out that it's even better. Not amazing, but just really, solidly good. The kind of thing that can make you smile."

"Like tripping Ser Desmond on the stairs," Surana breathed, eyes alight with mischief.

Anders covered his mouth with the back of his hand, to hold back a laugh. "Different kind of smile. Frozen custard smile."

"Oh, I like that kind of smile." Surana watched the wall again, eyes tracing patterns no one else seemed to follow. "You can say that, because you can see my face. Can you tell me what goes with other things, if you watch me? If I respond like I want to, instead of how I'm expected to, can you translate that into things I _don't_ know?"

"I have no idea, but I have the sense that's something we're going to want to try privately, first. I doubt you want to be making faces like that where people are watching, and I know I'm going to have answers nobody should hear over supper."


	9. A Visual Study of Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana has been allowed to watch Anders indulge in any number of pleasures, in the interest of furthering his own understanding of experiences he'll never have, and he and his sketchbook accompany two vastly different interpretations of sex, in a single day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Mevima](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima).

Nobody ever looked up, Anders had told him, and so far, that seemed to be the case. Fen'Din perched atop a stack of crates that had been piled into what was once a meeting room, while one of the storerooms was being re-warded against insects and decay. It was, of course, technically possible that Fen'Din might have had something to do with the sudden need to empty that particular storeroom, but no one would ever even think it, never mind be able to prove it.

Sketchbook open before him, he watched Anders, below, robes hiked up and tucked into his belt to reveal long, slender legs thick with golden curls. Humans, Fen'Din had noticed, were like that. At some point, they changed and got hairy. Elves went through their own changes, of course, but none of those involved spontaneously developing _animal features_! Karl and Anders insisted that hairy bodies were not an animal feature, but Fen'Din was convinced. At one point he handed Anders a book with pictures of wolves and bears in it, but Anders had retorted that nugs were hairless, and also had long ears, like _some people he knew_.

"So, am I just standing here so you can admire my legs and despair, or are you actually going to do something about it?" Anders asked the other mages, who still hadn't bothered to look up.

"You're such fucking trash, Anders," the pale one laughed, stepping closer to slide an arm around Anders's waist, hand tucked down between Anders's legs.

"You love it." Anders's chin tipped up smugly.

"I love you like I love my hand," the dark-haired one teased, "but I can use my hand for other things."

"Keep talking and you're not going to be able to use your hand for anything," Anders shot back, with a dangerous smile, before he bent forward, suddenly, gasping, as the pale one's hand clenched.

Fen'Din's pencil stilled. That look was not jest or pleasure. A few skeletal mice scurried into the spaces between boxes, as he watched this unfold. Over the last year, he'd become even more familiar with the ways Anders moved, and the subtle differences in his expressions. Anders tried to hide some things, Fen'Din knew, but never from him. The entire project would be worthless if Anders lied to him.

But, he watched, as Anders lied to the men around him, neck bent back, even as his body leaned forward, bared teeth slackening into a rounded mouth. He'd help, if things turned ugly enough, but he wouldn't rescue Anders from something he meant to do, which this obviously was. He still didn't really understand this, however many times he watched. Sometimes, Anders enjoyed it, and Fen'Din could tell by the way his jaw slid forward and his back tensed. Other times he just let it happen, and Fen'Din could tell by the way his body went slack, eyes unfocused. Somehow, Anders used his talents to gain things he wanted. Where other mages traded favours, Anders traded enjoyment of his body. _That_ Fen'Din could understand. That was a simple exchange. But, why it was something worth trading for, Fen'Din still hadn't quite managed. Certainly there were other things one could take pleasure in, but there was something else here. There was some greater draw that he would never feel, and it bothered him only in that he would never understand the appeal. Those faces, when he drew them, were faces he didn't make. He tried them, in the mirror, to see if anything changed inside him, if there was some untapped nuance he could trigger by replicating the form without the meaning, but nothing came. Except maybe Anders, who had looked away, pale-faced and embarrassed, and apologised for something unknown.

But, Anders, now, was down on his knees, chest pressed flat to the top of a crate, with his robes folded up over his back, baring him from the hips down. The pale mage gazed down covetously, as he stood between Anders's lower legs, sucking his own fingers.

"You know, taking your time, right now, is really kind of wasting your time. We don't have that long before someone comes looking for one of us, or even just comes in here to get something," Anders muttered, looking over his shoulder.

"Shut up, Anders. I know how not to get caught," the pale one said, eyes raising to the dark-haired mage looking amusedly at Anders's concerned face. "Or you could shut him up."

"I was going to wait for you, Val." The dark-haired mage's smile was wolfish, and Fen'Din caught every line of it. "But, if you insist..." He tucked his own robes up, baring legs that seemed much hairier than Anders's, but that might have been the difference in colour. His penis jutted proudly out in a way Fen'Din's never did, and the elf was, as usual, fascinated with the sight. Such a change from a thumb-length piss-guide to a nearly foot-length, thick, pink-tinged instrument of presumed pleasure that twinged at every touch -- touch, in this case, being merely Anders's breath, from the timing. Fen'Din watched the man grip Anders's hair and press his shaft between Anders's lips.

And that was a taste Fen'Din found himself curious about. Not curious enough to commit himself to _that_ , but curious enough that he'd taken a few months to prove to himself that he really wasn't flexible enough to indulge that curiosity without assistance. He considered asking Anders, but after the way Anders had reacted to being licked, the last time, he wasn't entirely sure it was wise -- not least because Anders would allow it, without question.

The charcoal never stopped moving, laying down quick lines he'd fill in later. The faces were precise, though, when he needed them to be -- and that was one he didn't want to miss, when Val's fingers plunged into Anders's ass, without warning. Anders choked and reeled, but recovered quickly, eyes dimming, as he tipped his hips up. Fen'Din idly wondered what Anders had bought himself, this time, that he was willing to give without complaint, even when his face betrayed him.

"Do you just walk around oiled up, in case you trip and fall on a knob?" Val asked, pulling his fingers out as fast as they'd gone in. He grabbed his robes with the other hand to give him the space to press himself between Anders's ass cheeks. "Or is that something the templars require of you, that you're always greased up and loose in case one of them wants a quickie?"

Anders's eyes flashed, before fading out again, and Fen'Din knew Val was a little too close to something Anders was trying to hide. Probably the templar part. He knew Anders had led templars away from him and Karl, and sometimes, he'd slipped in to watch. The first time Anders had spotted him, he'd gotten the look that meant he wasn't to interfere, no matter what happened. It was for the best, since he would have, otherwise, and that would have screwed up the angle Anders was working. But, watching Anders put himself back together afterward, Fen'Din had wondered if something like that should ever be for the best. Blood was something he understood, even if he didn't know pain.

There was a shift in Anders's breathing that always signalled penetration, and Fen'Din watched Val's face, instead, curious at the pale man's reactions. The smile on his face was less pleased than jagged and triumphant, like he'd proven something, a ghost of something else crawling in the space between his skin and itself. Fen'Din caught every line of that look, as Val gloated, before leaning forward over Anders's back and canting his hips up. There was a brief pause, and Fen'Din watched Anders swallow, before Val slammed in almost hard enough to move the crate. Anders's knuckles whitened on the other edge of the crate, before the dark-haired mage moved closer, changing the light enough that Fen'Din couldn't quite make out the hands. Or Anders's face, really, pressed tight, as it now was, to the dark-haired mage's crotch.

Panting and grunting, the two men rutted with Anders, like mating nugs. They barely touched him, Fen'Din noticed, and that struck him, as it always did. There were the ones who pressed their whole bodies against Anders, grabbing and stroking, mouths tight against his, and then there were the ones like this, who seemed to touch only as much as they had to.

Even if Anders's face was lost to him, Val and the other mage were still available, and Fen'Din took their lines. Pleasure and exultation -- he knew the second from drawings in an ancient Tevinter religious text. It was like they found some deep righteous joy in satisfying themselves in his friend's body. And then a choked off breath, a tensing of the fingers, and Val's hips slammed forward and stopped -- it looked like an awkward position, but he stayed there, panting, while the dark-haired mage kept rutting into Anders's mouth.

Fen'Din honestly wondered how it was Anders could breathe, but he was a healer. There must've been some trick to it.

The dark-haired mage let out a tiny sound, barely a hiccup, and Anders reached up and grabbed the man's ass, fingers like iron, holding him in place. There was a brief struggle, a subtle round of flexing and chuffing, and then the standing mage's spine tightened, and Anders relaxed and let himself be dragged back by the hair, eyes watering, thick spit dripping down his chin.

"Slut," the dark-haired mage accused, letting his robes fall to cover him. "You just couldn't wait to swallow. I was going to give you a break."

Anders's eyes lit with something that was almost amusement, but far more dangerous, and Fen'Din filled that face in carefully. Lifting a hand to heal his throat, Anders finally answered. "You mean you were going to shoot out all over my hair and clothes, and leave me to walk back, like that."

"Maybe, but you also wouldn't have breathed it." The dark-haired mage smirked, watching Val straighten up and extract himself, with a sharp pinch to Anders's ass.

"Come on, Leofric, leave the whore in peace," Val said, adjusting his own robes and smoothing his hair.

"That's right, Val. Whore. And you owe me." Anders pushed himself up, letting his robes fall, face still dripping with tears and spit, a dead-eyed smile completing the image.

"And you'll be paid in full," Val promised, holding out a hand. "A pleasure doing business, as always."

Anders grunted non-committally, but took the hand, all the same, binding the agreement again. And once again, Fen'Din wondered at the nature of what had been bought, as the two other mages left the room.

Wiping his face on the inside of his sleeve, Anders looked up to where Fen'Din sat, with a wink. He cocked his head to the side, in that way that was always an invitation to leave with him. Fen'Din gathered his sketchbook and tools and climbed down, eyes just as full of questions as they'd been when he walked in.

"Go up to my room, and wait for me. Scare the shit out of Godwin, or something. I'll be there, soon," Anders promised, tugging at the ends of Fen'Din's hair. The pressure was a friendly one, Fen'Din had learnt, a gesture of friendship, and he took Anders at his word, parting from him as they stepped into the hall.

Godwin, as usual, was fairly easily dealt with. A quick song, a few dancing skeletal mice, and some uncanny smiles, and the man evacuated the premises, going, as he said, to study with Niall. Fen'Din set the good chair beside the bed and opened his sketchbook again to fill in the half-finished lines. The suggestions on the page were meaningful to him, but they weren't images another person would recognise, yet. He picked a few he'd really liked, and worked at them, while he waited.

Two finished works in, Anders returned, alone, throwing himself on the bed. "Let me see?"

Fen'Din offered the book, with a sly smile. "They don't know you're lying to them," he said.

"You can tell?" Anders looked concerned.

"Of course I can tell. This is the twelfth book. I know your face, Anders. I know how you move." The smile widened, broader and simpler. "But, they don't know. They don't care to look. They--" He gave up and flipped pages, finally tapping on a sketch of Val's face. "There. Do you understand?"

Anders studied it for a long few moments, before nodding. "I think I do. I'm not playing them hard enough." He laughed. "Maybe I won't. It would be a pity to ruin that so soon, and leave myself stuck."

"What are you--"

"Don't ask me that. If anything happens, you can't know." Anders shook his head. "When I need you, I'll tell you enough. You'll laugh. You'll laugh harder, when it all comes out."

The door creaked open, quiet, but not silent, and Karl stepped in, eyes clouded with concern, as he closed the door without looking back. "What did--"

"It doesn't matter," Anders answered with the warmest smile he could manage, but Fen'Din could see it for what it was, and he pulled the book back, marking that face for later. Anders held his hands out, and Karl crossed the room, eyes flicking to Fen'Din, who shrugged. He'd leave, if Karl wanted him to, but it had never been an issue, with the three of them, and he doubted it would become one, now.

"Karl," Anders whispered, half-sitting on the bed, one arm wrapped around Karl's waist, face buried against his chest. "Just let me touch you. Let me feel you. Show me that you're here, that you're real."

"None of this is real," Fen'Din retorted, under his breath, filling in the last sketch of Anders's face, until Karl got his ass out of the way.

Anders choked on his next breath. "Shut the fuck up, elfhole," he wheezed, breathing an almost-silent laugh into the folds of Karl's robes, and Fen'Din snorted his own amusement in return.

Fen'Din still couldn't see, but he could tell what was happening by the movement in Karl's shoulders -- he was untying Anders's hair and running his fingers through it. Finally, Karl sat, turning to slide onto the bed, beside Anders, and Fen'Din wasn't sure he could move fast enough to capture the look on Anders's face -- like a bowl of water, full past brimming, with just enough tension not to spill over. Anders's eyes seemed almost sad as he grabbed Karl's hair, kissed him ravenously. Ravenously really was the word, Fen'Din thought. It was like a desperate hunger that would never be satisfied. Anders kissed like starving animals ate.

Karl's hands were gentle, like they always were, caressing the length and angles of Anders like the Sisters handled sacred relics. There was something more between them, but Fen'Din would never say it, and they would never admit it. It simply wasn't done, and they all knew why. But, the way Anders breathed, with Karl, was different -- just as slow, but less precise, less measured. Anders submitted to so many things, but he _relaxed_ into Karl, eyes always bright and full, instead of flat and empty. There was something between them, and Fen'Din swore it was hope, radiant and magnetic, and it called to him, spoke softly to him, as he drew them together. They made him smile, like an extra egg at breakfast.

They moved together, all hands and falling folds of cloth, kisses and whispers, and Fen'Din did his best to catch the smiles between them, as if each were blessed by the presence of something greater than himself. Which, of course, they were, but Fen'Din was never certain they could see it. Everyone assumed he was mad when he spoke of the light and the shapes between things.

"This fucking beard," Anders teased, fingers scratching at Karl's chin, as he settled behind Karl, robes hiked up around his hips. "One of these days I'm just going to shave it off while you're sleeping."

"What, am I too Fereldan for your dainty Northern tastes?" Karl shot back, rolling his eyes at Fen'Din. This had been going on for years, and Karl's beard was right where it had been, the whole time.

"Mmh." Anders pulled Karl back against him, his absurdly large penis sliding between Karl's thighs, in a position to make its size that much more obvious. "Too much like a goat," Anders decided. "Furry, bearded, and always up for a fuck."

"Why would you know that about goats?" Karl asked, eyes almost crossing in horror.

"Tevinter legends cast goats as a symbol of penile potency," Fen'Din filled in. "Thought you knew that."

"Forgot." Karl shrugged, some secret in his eyes as his hand drifted down to tease Anders's flesh with the sort of light touches Fen'Din couldn't feel at all. But, Anders pulled Karl closer, with one arm, the other shoving under him to wrap a hand around Karl's much smaller appendage, and Fen'Din's eyes lingered, taking in the differences between them, size and colour, the way they moved their hands. It was no surprise, Fen'Din thought, that Karl wouldn't allow Anders inside him. Perhaps it was more correct to say couldn't, since he couldn't imagine any result but Karl splitting right in half. But, he could tell Karl wanted to, all the same, in the apologetic look in his eyes, every time he held Anders like this.

As quiet as they were, sometimes, with the door closed, one would make a sound just louder than a whisper. This time, Anders poured out a ghost of a moan, just behind Karl's ear, and Karl arched and rolled his hips, rubbing himself against Anders in every way he could reach. A grease spell came ready to his hand, and Fen'Din watched the light change where the oil was stroked over Anders's skin.

"Please," Anders begged, more breath than word, his eyes squeezed shut against something Fen'Din couldn't see.

"Yes," Karl promised, just as quietly, hips rocking against Anders's hand as the muscles in his thighs rolled.

Fen'Din watched their faces, watched their hands, watched the way Anders's foreskin slid, and a shift in colour bloomed from the slit at the tip of his penis. He watched the way Karl seemed to notice the same thing with his hand, perhaps a change in texture, as well, and the motion of his fingers changed, thumb now circling that slit, teasing at the edges.

Anders's breath rasped against the back of Karl's ear, just loud enough for Fen'Din to hear it. Karl looked intent, a faint sheen rising on his face, lip caught between his teeth, as Anders's hand seemed to wring him like a washrag, squeezing and twisting. His breathing grew sharper and shallower, and his movements jerkier. Some muscles seemed to spontaneously disagree with the motions they were being dragged into by the muscles around them, and Fen'Din noted every twitch.

Anders whispered something Fen'Din couldn't make out, and Karl arched again, eyes wide, mouth round, but stiffly open, and Fen'Din watched the first spurt splash across the sheets, before he raised his eyes to Anders, whose eyes were closed, his face buried against the top of Karl's head. Anders's joints seemed to go loose, his thrusts broader and longer as his hips rolled, affected by Karl's sudden stiffness and the recoil from the ropes of the bed. He writhed, eyes squeezed as tight as his hands, and the rest of his body apparently boneless, until he suddenly relaxed, and Karl's hand cupped and turned down, semen dripping from the side of his palm, after a moment.

"Stay," Anders sighed, meaning both of them, and for a moment, Karl looked like he might move. That uncertainty made it into the lines, as Fen'Din continued to sketch. Still, after a moment, he settled back into Anders's arms, pulling down just the front of his robes to cover them.

They looked as if they could be somewhere else, faces soft with joy that wouldn't last, and Fen'Din wondered if one day they might all get out of this place, together. Like this, he could almost believe they could walk out, with him. But, they never held on long enough, and the spirit of the place took hold of them again, the sickness and unhappiness that inhabited the very air of the tower.

"Any good?" Anders asked, peering over the top of Karl's head.

"Go to sleep," Fen'Din replied, smiling, but not looking up. "I'll show you later."


	10. The Wage(r)s of Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stupid wager and a gift for a friend.

They bet with favours, as the only things of value they had, but the mages were nothing if not willing to wager on some unlikely event. Surana was usually chosen to hold the tokens, since he rarely had an interest in the outcome, if he wasn't the object of the bet. But, Anders had opened his mouth again, and very few people were willing to accept his declaration at face value.

"There's no way. No one is that flexible," one mage said, to the apprentice beside her, as she handed a bit of wax with her name to the elf with the unsettling smile.

"He's a healer, Leorah," the apprentice, old enough that his Harrowing must've been approaching, pointed out. "He's got to be using that to cheat it somehow, but the point isn't how, it's _if_ , and I say he can do it."

"He's full of shit," another mage said, leaning against the wall of the sectioned room. "It's Anders."

"Yeah, it's Anders, and if there's any shit left after everything else that's been in him, I'll be shocked," another mage joked.

"Hey, Fendy--" the leaning mage started.

"Fen'Din," Surana corrected, not looking up from the pile of wax and paper.

"Whatever. He's bet against himself, hasn't he?"

"I wouldn't have let him bet either way. He's the only one fully aware of the outcome." Surana smiled blandly. "None of us have witnessed him trying or succeeding. But, he knows. And now we'll know."

A small crowd had gathered, each one placing a bet with Surana, as they came in. Anders lounged on the bed, wrapped in only a sheet, paging through a book as he listened to the chatter. One hand idly rubbed at his knob. Finally, Surana closed the door.

"Prove it," Surana challenged, and Anders slid the book onto the nightstand, still open, not to lose his page too badly.

All of two people in the room hadn't seen Anders nude, and Surana knew exactly who they were, when the sheet came off.

"Maker!" a young enchanter choked out, fumbling the book she'd been reading.

"Can I change my bet?" a mage pleaded, putting on his best sad eyes for Surana. But, even to another elf, Surana was merciless. A wager was placed once and only once.

The crowd shifted, all of them stepping further into the room, trying to let the shortest people into the front, as Anders picked a direction and rolled up onto his shoulders, feet stepping slowly down the wall behind his head. In a very long few seconds, he inched closer and closer to himself, pausing to press a kiss to the tip of his own knob, before he opened his mouth for it. By the time he stopped moving, he'd lowered about a third of his knob into his mouth, and was sloppily sucking himself off.

"That is," Surana pronounced, "without question, a success. Favours lost will be distributed equally among the winners, as always, and I will retain any indivisible amount to serve as the starting stake for the next round."

Tokens were counted and divided, with each winner receiving back their own along with whatever they'd won, on their way back out. Anders remained folded over himself. Finally, only three mages remained -- Surana and two losers -- and the losing mages seemed frozen in place, just staring, wide-eyed at Anders.

"Your debts are paid," Surana reminded them. "The wager has ended. It is decided. He has met the terms and done so quite admirably, by the look of it."

"That's... That's absurd!" Leorah insisted. "There must be some spell he's used to get that that big!"

"If he were using spells on it, they would not be to _increase_ the size," Surana assured her. He'd heard Anders complain about that, enough times, over the years.

"That's ridiculous!" Leorah went on. "Every man wants to prove he's larger than everyone else."

"Unless that man actually is larger than everyone else, in every way, and naturally so." It was a bit of an exaggeration, Surana knew. Anders was lighter than most templars, but he was also _taller_ than most of them, too. His hands were bigger than Surana's head. "Or unless that man has no interest in such things, whatsoever."

"I'm not talking about you, Fen'Din. You're hardly a man."

The other elven mage beside Leorah finally stopped shaking his head in amazement and looked up in an obvious fury, but Surana touched his shoulder.

"She's right, Shani. I might have been a man in another world, but in this world I'm already dead." Surana shrugged it off.

"Dead men don't eat frozen custard," Shani pointed out.

"Certainly they do. The proof is before you." Surana smiled slyly, and across the room, Anders choked and snorted, finally unfolding himself and picking up the sheet, again.

"Look, if you're not here to warm my knob, can you please get the fuck out?" Anders asked. "As lovely as this philosophical discussion about the nature of men and custard is, it's really not helping me with the one thing I'd like to get done before supper, because that's going to be terrible, if I don't take care of it."

"I should stand here, just to spite you," Shani muttered. "I can't _believe_ you just did that, and I _watched_ it happen."

"Not my fault you bet against something so obvious. But, oh! You bet against me without checking the goods. So maybe it wasn't obvious. Still your own fault." Anders smiled anything but apologetically. "And Leorah? That's all mine. Ask around."

"That's absurd," Leorah insisted again. "It's indecent."

"You're telling me?" Anders laughed. "Seriously, though, get the fuck out. Both of you."

"What about him?" Shani cocked a thumb at Surana, as he grabbed Leorah's arm and made for the door.

"He's seen me do worse." Anders dropped the sheet again, as the door creaked open. "Thank you!" He called after them, as it closed again, relaxing and looking up at the wall, again, considering if it would be worth it.

"Don't?" Surana asked, reaching under the carved wooden trim on a low shelf of the half-height bookcase that served as Anders's vanity. His sketchbook dropped into his hand, and he rescued a wrapped charcoal stick from a collection of writing implements at his hip, as he took a seat on top of the bookcase.

"Don't sit there," Anders shook his head, glancing around the room as he stroked himself. "You can't see from there. But, they stole my chair again. Go see if Godwin's got it."

Surana slid off the bookcase and stepped around the wall, to return with a chair that he set beside the bed. He piled a few things from the nightstand on the floor, before he sat down and put his feet in their place, propping the book across his legs. Reaching out, he brushed a bit of hair out of Anders's face. "That's better."

"Did you finish the ones from last time?" Anders asked, fingers slicking themselves as he cast without thinking, thrusting up into his hand.

"Yeah, I'll show you, after. I wrote which ones they are, again, too." Surana smiled serenely, eyes on Anders's face, as he began to sketch. "Thanks for this."

"I'm going to do it anyway. I already don't care if you're looking. If we get a reference guide out of it, all the better." A grin flashed across Anders's face, only to be lost as his eyes drifted shut and he tipped his head back, swallowing some sound he wouldn't make. He thought, one day, if they ever made it out of this place, maybe he'd teach Surana what pleasure sounded like, too. Maybe he'd teach himself what it sounded like. But, for now, they had a book of faces, and the notes Anders made beside those sketches gave Surana something to hold on to.


	11. Two for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karl gets curious about the show Anders put on, and Anders has to demonstrate his flexibility again. (nsfw)

"I hear you won a lot of favours."  
  
"Mmm, Elfhole took a lot of people for a lot of chips. I got my share." Anders looked up from his notes to where Karl leaned in the doorway of the room he shared with Godwin. "Why? You want me to spend some on you? Buy you something pretty? Maybe a few new toys to play with?"  
  
Karl laughed, stepping into the room and closing the door, once Anders was looking at him. Over the years, he'd learnt not to sneak up on Anders -- it tended to end in fire. "No, I was just wondering how long you were in that position. Fen'Din showed me the sketches. That ... doesn't look comfortable."  
  
"Well, it's not the most comfortable thing I've ever done, no, but I've done worse. I wouldn't have agreed to it, if it was going to be horrible." Pushing his chair back, Anders turned to face Karl, and stretched a leg, invitingly.  
  
"Yes, you would." Karl snorted against the top of his fist. "I know you."  
  
"... Okay, you're probably right. But, you're not interrupting me in the middle of the day, when I know you're working on that rebuttal to Johann of Starkhaven, just to give the healer a hard time about possible back pain." Anders raised an eyebrow and watched Karl's face. "I know you pretty well, too."  
  
Karl looked at anything that wasn't Anders. "Maybe I just wanted to see for myself. But, not if it's uncomfortable. I wouldn't want you to ..." He paused and dragged his eyes back to Anders. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. You get enough of that."  
  
Anders's eyes sparkled with amusement. "I'm sorry, Karl, could you step a little closer and say that again? Because I'm pretty sure I just heard you say you wanted to watch me swallow my own knob."  
  
Karl tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, a faint dusting of pink rising across the tops of his cheeks, just under his eyes. "That's not what I _said_."  
  
"Don't be such a fucking literalist. It's what you meant." Anders laughed, sliding a finger along the inside of his thigh as he watched Karl.  
  
"Maybe." Karl continued to stare at the ceiling.  
  
"And what will you give me, if I do this for you, hmm?" Anders purred.  
  
Karl's eyes widened as they landed on Anders, and he staggered back a step, bumping into the closed door. "I didn't mean-- I don't--" He looked hurt. "I'm sorry."  
  
"What?" Anders looked entirely confused, before the implications came together in his head. "No! Not like that! Andraste's flaming knickers, what do you take me for! Come here. Maker, I'd never do that to you."  
  
"What?" Karl blinked stupidly, but made his way over to Anders. "I thought--"  
  
"You're not Val, and I know it. How's that?" Anders tugged Karl down into his lap, arms wrapping around him. "I was thinking I just wanted to watch you appreciate the view."  
  
Karl relaxed, turning his head to laugh against Anders's cheek. "I don't know if there's going to be much to watch."  
  
"Are you really telling me that watching me suck myself off isn't going to make you hard?" Anders raised an eyebrow. "The fact that you're even asking makes me doubt that."  
  
Karl shifted, clearing his throat. "I don't think watching me get stiff is that interesting."  
  
"Maybe not, but watching you stroke yourself might be." Anders licked the side of Karl's neck, slowly, nipping just behind his ear. "Lying there with my knob on my tongue, sucking hard and watching you polish your knob, thinking about how good it's going to feel when you fuck me..."  
  
Karl shifted as Anders's hand slid into his lap. "Are we going to have time for that? Where's Godwin?"  
  
"I don't give a shit where Godwin is. It's still light out, and it's Washday. He's not going to be back before dark, because he _knows better_." A breathy chuckle slipped out of Anders. "The number of times he's walked in on me with my knob in my hand has made absolutely sure that Washdays, before dark, the room is mine." Anders continued in a warm purr. "So, what do you say? You watch me swallow my own knob, I watch you polish yours, and then you fuck me long and slow."  
  
Karl swallowed, audibly, as the idea percolated through his mind and Anders's hand continued to knead, gently, between his thighs. He glanced again at the door, warily. "Yes."  
  
"You're going to have to get off my lap, then." Anders bounced his leg.  
  
Within minutes, Anders had dragged the mattress off the bed, and he stood over it, stripping off his robes. "I could do this, without taking everything off, but if you want to see it, I think you should see all of it."  
  
Shooting another quick glance at the door, Karl huffed in amusement, trying to hold back a tiny smile. "Pretty sure I see all of it every time you put it between my thighs. And it's big, but it's not _that_ big, Anders."  
  
Anders paused, robes still tangled on his arms, over his head. "I meant you should see the whole _pose_ , without the robes in the way. Andraste's tits, when did you get such a dirty mind?"  
  
"Pretty sure I caught that from you." Laughing too hard to dodge, Karl caught Anders's robes with his face, and swatted them to the floor. His breath caught, as he looked back at Anders, eyes slowly travelling up that long, lean body. "I know you're incapable of shutting up about how beautiful you are, but I really don't think you do yourself justice."  
  
"I don't think so, either, but if I did, no one would ever believe me." With a shrug, Anders fluttered his eyelashes, and then eased himself down onto the mattress on the floor. He reached back and tapped behind his head. "If you stand here, I promise not to kick you, mostly because I'd knee myself in the face on the way down." He paused. "And hike up your skirts already. I don't want to miss that first moment you see that I'm serious."  
  
"You're never serious," Karl retorted, stepping into place and tucking the bottom of his robes into his belt. Half-hard, already, he let one hand caress his knob, as his eyes wandered the length of Anders's body -- a view that suddenly shifted as Anders rocked up onto his shoulders, arms angled to support his back, and then slowly lowered his knees to either side of his head.  
  
"I'm going to be serious in a moment. I can't reach, like this. Give me something worth thinking about." Anders laughed and stretched his tongue toward his own knob, not quite reaching.  
  
"Is this not enough?" Karl teased, stroking himself slowly.  
  
"Mmm, tell me what you're going to do with that." Anders's eyes sparkled.  
  
"Oh, I don't know, I thought maybe I'd just rub it all over you."  
  
Anders laughed, the curve in his back bowing so his knob bobbed uselessly just out of reach of his lips. "Ass."  
  
"Oh, is that where you'd like me to put it?" Karl asked, with feigned innocence, reaching out to drag a finger from the very edge of that hole down to just behind Anders's balls.  
  
"Or you could do that. That would work." Anders caught his breath and stretched his toes languidly.  
  
And it worked well, Karl kneading that flesh with one hand and stroking himself with the other, as Anders watched, upside down, and soon Anders could reach to wrap his lips around the knob at the end of his own eagerly rising staff. But, as he sucked, Karl's hand didn't move away. If anything, the teasing grew more intense -- far-too-quick touches just where he wanted them most, a fingertip catching on the edge of his hole.  
  
Anders easily took more of himself into his mouth, as there was more to take, working the shaft with his tongue and a quiet hum that he could feel all the way up his spine. He looked past the bare knobs that occupied most of his vision to find Karl's eyes fixed on his lips, on the slide of his own shaft into his mouth. Anders teased himself, the way he would if it were Karl in his mouth, let himself feel all the things he'd only tried on other people. He could feel his thighs start to tremble, and Karl's fingers lingered, circling his hole, toying with the edge, dipping just the pad in. Anders knew what he was being asked, when Karl raised an eyebrow, but he shot the man the most scornful look he could manage in that position. No, he could do this, himself. He could do this himself, and then he'd sprawl out, tongue still heavy with his own come, and let Karl take whatever pleasures he wanted. It would be something to remember for years.  
  
Karl watched, a bit uncertainly, as Anders continued to pleasure himself. Not that he had any doubt that Anders's mouth could wring a mindblowing orgasm from even a thousand-year-old Tevinter statue, but that position looked more than a little uncomfortable. Still, he caught the signs, when it happened -- Anders's hands clenched tight, his toes spread, and the rest of his body sagged loosely toward his face. After a moment, Anders unfolded himself, legs rising, knob dragging slowly from between slick lips that clung to it as long as they could. Finally, Anders sprawled loosely across the mattress, tugging gently at the bottom hem of Karl's robes, where he hadn't tucked them up.  
  
As Karl crouched down, Anders opened his mouth to display his cupped tongue, still loaded, and Karl quickly twisted himself around to lie next to Anders, so he could get a better angle to kiss it away. Somehow, it tasted even better, out of Anders's mouth, like the flavours combined in some way to be even more Anders. His hand caressed as much of Anders's bare flesh as he could touch, eager to appreciate it while it was still on display. In the Circle, no one was ever unclothed for long, unless it involved a bath or a healer -- and he supposed this did involve a healer, though not in the way one usually meant it.  
  
Eventually, Anders retrieved his tongue from Karl's mouth, and slid a hand between them, where Karl was grinding against the top of his hip. "You going to put that in me, or are you all talk?" he teased.  
  
"You still want it?" Karl looked a little surprised. "You're insatiable."  
  
"I am not! One is enough, but two is amazing, and three... well, three is probably impossible, but I'd be willing to try for it." Anders grinned, his own hand wringing Karl's extremely interested knob.  
  
"That is exactly what I'm talking about. Insatiable," Karl murmured, rolling over to ease himself between Anders's legs. "You really think you can get two?"  
  
"I'm a healer." Anders rolled his eyes. "But, honestly, who cares? I want you to fuck me in the ass until I forget my own name."  
  
Karl shivered as the thought ran straight down his spine. "Haven't you already?"  
  
"You'll never know," Anders scoffed, tipping his hips up, expectantly.  
  
"I wish you trusted me." The words were out before Karl could think about them, and the horrified look that followed said he hadn't known the words until he heard them.  
  
"Karl, I'm fucking naked. How much more trust do you need?"  
  
"I'm really sorry. I don't know what I was-- That was stupid." Karl covered his face with both hands, paying no mind to how Anders touched him. "I know you're right."  
  
"Karl?" Anders's voice was calm, expectant.  
  
"What?"  
  
" _Fuck me_ ," Anders demanded, one hand sliding roughly over Karl's knob.  
  
Karl choked on a laugh and leaned forward, one hand landing next to Anders's shoulder and the other guiding him into place. "Insatiable," he teased, before sliding in.  
  
Anders wound himself around Karl's body, arms and legs drawing Karl down, closer, as close as they were likely to get, with Karl's robes still on. "I want you," he breathed, almost silently, pulling Karl's robes up, until they were pressed skin on skin, to the ribs. Anders's head tipped back, baring his neck, as he swallowed, trying to keep control of his breath as Karl gave him everything he wanted, hot and hard inside him, lips pressed devotedly to his chest, again and again. If he could surrender to this and never come back from it, he would. If this had been his Harrowing, he'd have been lost.  
  
As he clamped down and canted his hips, he could feel Karl's breath stutter across his chest, and when he relaxed, he again got just what he wanted. Karl picked up the pace, panting against Anders's chest, pinning Anders's knob between them, so it pressed against his belly at the end of each thrust. Anders writhed, one hand tight in Karl's hair as Karl's lips closed around his nipple, his hips rolling in counterpoint to Karl's thrusts. This was perfect, as far as Anders was concerned. This was what Karl could give him, that no one else could, if only because Karl was the only one who had bothered to learn his desires. He could only hope he gave as good as he got, but the way Karl kept giving, he didn't doubt it for an instant.  
  
Anders's hips dropped again and he felt Karl's inaudible hum vibrate across his nipple and down into his ribs. And he knew what that meant. He held himself as tight as he could, as Karl rutted into him, short, sharp thrusts as Karl's shaky breaths splashed across his chest. Anders's knob was still pinned between them, the pressure and the friction aided by a tiny grease spell he hadn't needed to see to cast, and the stroking and grinding brought on by the motion of Karl's body over and into his made flowers of pleasure bloom behind his eyes.  
  
"Again," Anders breathed, barely audible from where Karl's head rested on his chest. "Now."  
  
Karl's hips rolled, one more stuttered thrust, and Anders fell loose under him, aside from the hands clutching at him almost painfully hard. Two. He snorted in amused exasperation and then let the feel of Anders throbbing against his belly drag him over, as well. His entire body tensed as he panted against Anders's chest, Anders's hands finally loosening and stroking his hair, as he shuddered and arched.  
  
"Even the beard doesn't quite ruin what you look like, like that," Anders teased, straightening one leg down the length of Karl's.  
  
"I like the beard," Karl muttered against Anders's neck. "How many candles until Godwin?"  
  
"At least one. You want to stay here and keep me warm?" Anders wound his arms around Karl.  
  
"Maker, yes."


	12. A Sucker Punch and a Couple of Good Blows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Val talks shit and gets hit. But, with Frick nearby, Niall only gets a few good swings before he winds up with a broken nose. Anders to the rescue, by which I mean Niall gets very very laid for his trouble.

Fen'Din was buried in a pile of Nevarran studies of Tevinter necromantic technique, when the fight started. At first, he barely looked up -- Val starting shit Leofric would have to finish. As usual. He'd always suspected those two would be much less trouble for anyone else, if they'd just fuck each other. Even Anders hadn't been able to explain to him why they both reacted with such revulsion to the suggestion. It seemed like the sensible solution.

"Twenty-five and a mage, and you're still worried about what mummy thinks?" Val scoffed, curls bouncing as he tossed his head. "Maybe if you spent your minuscule magical talent on improving your looks, someone would finally believe you were meant for good things and throw you a bone. Not great things. I don't care what your mother said -- she's your mother and she was lying not to hurt your tiny feelings. No one with a nose like that could be destined for more than dog-herding or whatever Fereldan peasants do when they're not sucking Orlesian cock."

Ah, Fen'Din thought. That would be a reason. Frick was nothing if not Fereldan, with the classic features of centuries of Alamarri chieftains. And he had a killer right hook, to judge from the number of black eyes that followed anyone starting with Val. But, of all of them, Val was the only one who'd actually come with a title. Not just Orlesian, but extremely notable Orlesian nobility. The rest of them... only a handful had been old enough to remember where they came from or who their parents were, and Niall was one of the lucky ones. If that could be considered lucky.

Fen'Din watched Niall's eyes darken, the only warning before his fist slammed into Val's chest, just under the ribs, knocking the gangly Orlesian to the floor. Everyone who'd been pretending not to watch found a reason to move away, as Val tried to sit up and Niall kneed him in the face, before pinning him to the floor with a knee on each arm.

"Don't you talk about my mother," Niall roared, fist slamming into Val's face, "or Ferelden," another punch, "or Fereldan peasants!" His fist hammered down again and again. "The Battle of River Dane was won by a Fereldan peasant! Loghain MacTir and his men beat the asses of the Orlesian army, just like I'm going to beat yours!"

Val sputtered and bled, trying to angle his face away from the rain of blows.

A flicker of purple cloth at the edge of a bookcase caught Fen'Din's eye, but not Niall's.

"Did I say you could hit him?" Frick's voice coiled low and dangerous as he drew back his leg, landing a kick straight against Niall's nose as the other mage looked up at the sound of his voice.

Niall rocked back, knees lifting off of Val's arms, and Frick kicked him again, knocking him back across the library floor.

"You don't touch him." Frick's eyes gleamed like sunlight on lyrium, as he crouched down to help Val off the floor. "I'll break a lot more than your nose, if you so much as breathe his air again. I'll show you things that have been illegal in Tevinter since the Reformation."

Val's face was a bloody mess, and he leaned heavily on Frick, as they left the room, to find a healer, leaving Niall still lying on the floor, both hands pressed to his face.

"Somebody clean this up, before they kill us all." Anders eased out of the Nevarran history stacks, behind Fen'Din, straightening his robes as he swept around the table, straight toward Niall. "And you..." A smile crept across his face, as he crouched and traced a healing spell down the side of Niall's cheek. "That was kind of hot."

"Fuck off," Niall groaned, watery eyes peering at Anders over the tips of his fingers.

"No fucking, off or otherwise, until your face is back on." Anders chuckled, quietly. "Let me see, and I'll make it stop bleeding. Then we can get you out of here and I'll take a closer look. Quick quick! I don't want Val sending templars back."

At the mention of templars, which Niall was honestly surprised they hadn't seen yet, he dragged himself upright and leaned forward before moving his hand away. Half-clotted blood spilled onto the floor and fresh followed.

"Andraste's tits aflame, he made a mess of you, didn't he?" Anders cast as he spoke, loosely joining the torn skin. "I need to set that, but I don't want to do it here." He shot a panicked glance at Fen'Din.

"You're not getting out the easy way." Fen'Din shook his head and glanced toward the sound of armour in the hall. "Go the back way."

"Shit, shit, shit!" Anders swiped a sleeve across Niall's face to clear the blood, earning an agonised sound, and dragged him deeper into the stacks. One of the bookcases in the back would move aside, if exposed to a particular spell, and move back half a moment later. He cast and shoved Niall through, ducking in close behind and pulling Niall into the shadows while he waited for the passage to close.

"Restricted section," Anders explained after a moment. "Actually, they lost it. Just keep your voice down."

Niall stood, stunned, one hand again pressed to his face and the other in a whitening clench around Anders's wrist.

"Right, sorry, your face. Step into the light and tip your face up." Anders's hands were gentle as they prodded the broken bones, shifting and mending. "You're lucky he didn't knock your eye out."

"I think I knocked a couple of Serault's teeth down his throat," Niall muttered, trying to keep his face as still as possible, while Anders worked.

"I think that's the sexiest sentence I've heard all week, including, 'It's like you're made of a hundred percent finely crafted fuck', which I have to say, was pretty hot." Anders traced his fingers over Niall's face, checking for any minor chips or fractures he'd missed, the healing warming his fingertips.

"That's ridiculous," Niall scoffed, gazing up at the outrageously handsome healer. The healer who had banged everyone in the tower except him, if the rumours were true.

"Admittedly, it sounded better with my ass stuffed full of hot knob." Anders shrugged, forcing himself to take his hands off Niall. His fingers lingered, drawing reluctantly away. "But, yeah, watching you rearrange Valery's face? I don't think I've ever been so turned on in my entire life."

"Fat lot of good it did." Niall snorted and looked surprised when it didn't hurt.

"You jest. I have _never_ heard Frick get that pissed. At anyone. For anything. You hit Val, and somehow you're still here to talk about it. You should've seen yourself, it was gorgeous. I bet you'd do you after that, if you'd been watching." Anders paused, a smile creeping across his face again. "I mean, I'd do you."

"You'd do anything with two legs and a pulse," Niall huffed, eyes darting toward the bookcase where they'd entered, but nothing moved.

"On the contrary! I'd have gotten to you long before, if that were true." Anders's eyes sparkled in the light streaming through the filthy, cobwebbed window forgotten with the rest of the room. "But, if that's a no... well, I just thought I'd offer. Takes a bit to get my attention, no matter what anyone says."

"Then what, exactly, did Serault do to 'get your attention'?" Niall snarled, finally letting the disgust cross his face.

"Are you kidding? He's loaded. As long as it's nothing to do with spirits or entropy, they'll let him near almost anything for a few bottles of wine and some baubles from home. And I take every advantage of that fact." Anders looked smug.

"So he's paying you."

"I prefer to think I'm paying him."

"I hope you're stiffing him horribly." Niall paused. "Don't say it."

"Which 'it'? I've got at least five. But, if you want stiff..." Anders smirked and gestured down, but didn't finish the sentence. "Still thrilled you bloodied him up. Gives me a bit of a tingle just thinking about it."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"As a head wound, and five times as fun!"

"Right here?"

"In any position you want me in," Anders promised, sinking to his knees, still smiling. "Well, almost any, but you wouldn't actually want that, so I'm not too concerned."

"And if I said I liked you in this one?" Niall asked, still a bit suspicious as he slowly hiked his robes above the knee.

"I'd wonder what you were doing still standing a foot away." Anders traced his fingers up the outside of Niall's bare leg, stopping as his fingers hit cloth.

Niall still looked uncomfortable, uncertain, as he stepped closer, tucking the front of his robe into his belt, but leaving it still just long enough to cover himself.

"I've healed your face. You could tell me to fuck off. I don't advise it, because you'd really be missing out, but you could."

For a moment, Niall looked like he might, but his hands seized the last of the cloth and pulled it out of the way to reveal the soft, clammy skin of his yet-unconvinced knob.

"Maker, that's _nice_..." Anders breathed, and he actually sounded serious, before he nuzzled in beside Niall's balls, following with his tongue.

Above him, Niall wobbled, one hand grabbing at Anders's shoulder for balance. Somehow, Niall managed to finish tucking his robe out off the way, as Anders's tongue teased and tempted his knob. It was nothing like Niall had imagined, which was probably a good thing, since 'wet and gross' wasn't really on his list of things to seek out. But, it was Anders, and if you couldn't try things of questionable taste and reason with Anders, who could you try them with? Or at least that was what Niall had heard and overheard. And was that really just tongue? That was definitely a talent, and he started to understand what the big deal was about Anders. Even if that mouth had been on Val, it was on him, now, and to intense effect.

As Niall swallowed a desperate sound, Anders finally let the testicle he'd been sucking slide out of his mouth, before licking in the tip of Niall's knob to replace it. Just the tip, and he sucked hard, as he nudged the foreskin back with his tongue, Niall's legs trembling against his hands already. After a few rough licks, Anders pulled back, leaving a gentle kiss at the tip before he looked up.

"You sure about this position? I don't want you to fall and break your head on the floor."

Niall blinked down, dazed. "Hmmf?"

"You shouldn't be standing. You're going to fall. I can feel it in your legs." Anders shifted his grip, in case Niall did start to fall. "Table over there if you want to sit. Or you could kneel here, and I'll stretch out."

Niall watched his knob bob, exposed, between his hips and Anders's lips. He could feel every breath of Anders's concerns against it. Licking his lips, he shifted uncomfortably as a thought occurred to him. "What if I want you to fuck me?"

"No." Anders pressed a kiss to the side of Niall's knob, just to keep it interested. "That's the position you don't get me in."

"What, am I not good enough for that?" Niall knew he sounded catty, wanted to take the words back, as soon as they left his mouth, but Anders smiled treacherously, slowly rising to tower over him.

"You're not big enough for that. I'd break your hips." Anders hiked his own robes until his own substantial knob pressed against Niall's belly. "I'd pull your liver out your ass. Ask Karl, if you don't believe me."

Niall swallowed hard. "That's a good reason. Sorry, I just..."

"Got a little ahead of yourself, there." Anders let his robes drop. "Happens. Still: you, falling..."

"Is, ah... Is the other way out, too?"

"You want to fuck me?" Anders asked, dizzy and a bit breathless at the idea. He hadn't expected to get anywhere with Niall -- the man was notoriously an angry loner, even if he tolerated Karl's company surprisingly well. Anders wrapped a hand around Niall's knob, giving it a few slow strokes. "You want to bury this in me and fill me up?"

"I was thinking about it..." Niall shrugged tensely. "Not something I've done recently... or, well, at all, I mean--" He gestured at Anders.

"Well no, not with me." Anders laughed, tucking up his own robes. "When was the last time?"

"It's been years. I was sixteen, there were a couple of girls. Didn't work out." Niall shrugged, trying to forget the rest of that story -- one had gotten sent to Val Royeaux, and the other blamed him.

Anders stretched out on the grimy floor, where the light lit the dust in the air like sparkles. "Well, I'm just going to have to show you a good time, then. Make up for all your years without."

Niall made an odd sound, some combination of a cough, laugh, and snort, and covered his mouth with one hand, as his eyes took in the sight below him -- those long legs that everyone wanted wrapped around them; that knob that was much too large to be so called, maybe a staff, but it made his own feel tiny and inadequate by comparison; the drape of cloth across Anders's narrow chest; and those curious golden eyes, still watching him. "All the years? That's going to be exhausting."

Anders glanced at the window. "When's the next time you have to justify your existence to the committee?"

"I'll tell them I slept through it," Niall decided, cautiously kneeling between Anders's legs.

Tapping beside himself, Anders rolled to the side and waited for Niall to join him. "Too much talking," he apologised, closing a hand around the base of Niall's flagging knob and wrapping the other arm around him, to drag nails down the back of Niall's robes.

After a few strokes, Niall tentatively pressed his lips against Anders's, to be met by a very quiet sound of encouragement and the hand on his back moving down to squeeze his ass. Nothing he'd gotten up to in his teenage years had been this slow and easy, this warm and intimate. He sneezed against Anders's cheek and pulled back, embarrassed. Or this dusty. "Sorry."

"It's this floor." Anders chuckled, quietly, wiping his face on Niall's shoulder. "C'mere, let's get your face away from it, before you ruin that nose I just fixed."

"Is it too much to hope you improved it?" Niall asked, as they rolled back over, Anders's knees parting for him.

"Your nose pisses off Val, therefore it's perfect. Couldn't ask for a better nose." Anders ran his hands down the inside of his thighs and raised his knees toward his chest.

Niall's hands hesitantly traced the same path -- Anders's skin was smooth, which shouldn't have been a surprise, he realised. Shock! The healer's skin is the best in the tower! But, his fingers lingered uncertainly where thigh gave way to ass. His eyes travelled the rest of the way down to the slick, swollen rim of Anders's hole, and his heart hammered, his skin tingled with desire. But, he dragged his eyes back up and caught Anders watching him. "It's... been a few years." Niall shrugged and looked away. "Do I just...?"

"If I were anyone else, the answer to that question would be no, but I am me, and I am the best and easiest lay you will ever have." Anders grinned and wiggled his bottom, enticingly. "So, yes, already slicked and stretched and anything else you might be worried about. I'm a healer, remember? I do know what I'm doing."

Niall took a breath and mashed his knob against Anders's ass, missing the first time, with a mouthful of muttered swears, the hand he held his knob with trembling so he could barely guide himself to the right spot. But, finally, he slid in, to a whispered ' _yes_ ' from Anders, and those long legs wrapped around his sides, as he leaned forward. His first thought was that it was unbearably tight, and the heat was a bit of a shock to his damp knob that had been out in the breeze in this unheated room. And then he could feel the smooth slickness, as Anders arched under him, pushing further onto him. He might dispute 'easiest' -- he'd had to get kicked in the face, first -- but, Niall wasn't so sure he could dispute 'best', even in these few seconds. They weren't sixteen, any more, and Anders had clearly spent the intervening years practising.

Anders breathed through his mouth, long, slow breaths that made nearly no sound as he writhed and rolled his hips, wringing Niall's knob inside him. This wouldn't take long, and he could tell from the way Niall was already panting, sweat beading on that lovely face, made even more attractive somehow by the stunned look of desire. Niall was surprisingly good looking, when he didn't look like he was going to bludgeon someone with a book and storm off in a huff, which was odd, given that Anders tended to like that look on people. But, this was also a look he liked on people, and he considered rhapsodising about it at length, later, just to put a twist in Val's smalls.

Reaching up with one hand, Anders wiped the sweat from Niall's brow and stroked it onto his own knob, knowing it wouldn't be enough, but just wanting to watch the look -- there. Niall looked up guiltily, trying to figure out how to rebalance himself so he could spare a hand, even as Anders seemed to be doing a marvellous job for himself, to judge by the rippling tension in the thighs clamped along Niall's sides.

"Don't," Niall panted, as Anders dribbled over his own fingers. His mouth stretched open as the pleasure shuddered down his spine, in the middle of the sentence. "I'll... mouth... let me-- my mouth," he panted, unable to tear his eyes away from the thick shaft gripped in Anders's fist. He'd never done it before, and he'd probably never do it again, but Anders. If he was going to make a fool of himself, it might as well be with the man who refused to confirm or deny anything. "Just--" Niall shuddered again. "Just let me--"

A strangled sound of pleasure wrenched out of Niall, and Anders's face broke into a wicked smile as he crossed his ankles against Niall's ass and pulled him deeper. He offered the few drips on his fingers for Niall to lick, in case he changed his mind at the taste, rocking his hips hard and steady as Niall's eyes rolled back in his head, mouth full of wet fingers.

Niall's sounds of desperation grew sharper and closer together, as Anders's fingers pressed against his tongue in a reminder to stay as quiet as possible, until at last, Niall's hips tensed and he drooled down Anders's arm. "'S goob," he mangled out around the fingers in his mouth, before Anders took them back.

"You still interested?" Anders asked, gesturing to his throbbing knob with the hand still covered in Niall's spit. "Or, do your spit and I need to solve this a different way?"

Niall looked a bit warier, post-orgasm, but he tried to remember how good the idea had sounded, with Anders filling all his senses and raw desire pounding in his ears. He nodded, still catching his breath, and eased out of Anders, a bit surprised to find his knob little more than slick for the trouble. As he sat up, Anders's legs unwrapped from around him, stretching loosely to the sides and behind him.

Nodding, Niall finally spoke. "I want it," he said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself.

Anders gestured again, watching Niall expectantly.

Tugging his robe back down, Niall inched back and leaned down, until he was inches from Anders's flesh and surrounded by the thick smell of sex. He looked up, as Anders's fingers pushed gently through his hair. Something about that was calming, warm. Something about Anders was warm, which was utterly weird in this place. He pushed the thought aside and dragged his tongue along the last few inches of Anders's knob -- _staff_ , his mind insisted, balking at the size -- recognising the taste of salt and sweat and unwashed hands, but he'd licked his own fingers often enough to turn pages. His lips parted around the tip, sliding down to meet foreskin, as he lapped at the slit, feeling Anders's hand tighten in his hair -- not a pull but a firmer grip.

The first droplet tasted like salted bean broth, as it broke against the tip of his tongue, and he decided this was something he could do. At least, what he was doing, which was not at all what Anders had been doing for him. He was twice as certain, now that he had the head in his mouth, thick and hot as a boiled goose egg, that there was no way he'd ever fit so much of Anders into any orifice he had. But, this? He could do this.

Niall almost envied Anders his easy silence, the way the twitch of a few fingers and a sudden end to a longer breath conveyed things Niall was sure he'd have been hard-pressed not to whimper and moan over. But, in this place, getting loud meant getting caught, and Anders was clearly just as much the master at avoiding that as he was at providing pleasure. Some bitterness crept into Niall's eyes at that thought, and he closed them as he sucked more intently, swallowing around the flesh in his mouth as he stroked it with his tongue. He didn't resent Anders, he resented the system that had created Anders. He resented that they lived in a place where anything other than cold, professional solitude got people sent across the fucking continent. He just wanted a house in the mountains, maybe a nice girl, a farm, a dog... a life like any other Fereldan peasant, as Serault put it. But, instead, he was trapped here, where the best he could get was some grave-silent tryst in a cold, dark, forgotten room. And it really was the best. If not the best possible, definitely the best he'd managed.

He felt a twinge between his hips, thinking of how good it had felt to push himself into Anders's hot, slick hole, and remembering the feel of Anders meeting his every thrust left him humming, warm and low, around the thick shaft between his lips. He licked roughly at Anders, feeling the clench of fingers in his hair every time his tongue pressed against that delicate slit, edges swelling more from the sucking each time his tongue parted them.

Suddenly, Anders tapped intently on the side of his head -- a warning -- but Niall hummed again in contentment, sinking further down and sucking harder. But, Anders's body didn't go loose with the pleasure until Niall started to pull back. Then the taste of salt cream, the consistency of raw egg, exploded across Niall's tongue, and he had immediate regrets. He tried to keep it together, to keep sucking and not fuck up an excellent quarter candle, but after the third spurt, he turned his head to the side and vomited profusely.

"I'm sorry," he panted, gagging and drooling, but Anders had rolled to his feet at the first retch, and the healer's hands were already on Niall's face.

"Oh, shit!" Anders flooded Niall's body with a basic healing battery. "Are you all right? Did I get the back of your throat?"

Niall shook his head, gazing miserably into the pool of vomit that slowly spread toward his knees, as he wiped his mouth. "I'm all right. I just-- I'm sorry." He pushed himself to his feet and kept his eyes on the floor as Anders dusted him off. "Do you think the templars are gone, yet?"

Anders winked, grabbed Niall's hand, and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. "Shh. We'll find out," he said, heading back toward the book cases that formed the entrance.

While Anders stood with his face pressed against the wood, peering through one tiny hole and then another, Niall tried to straighten himself out -- untucking his robes, brushing off a few smears of ancient dust Anders had missed. It bothered him that Anders wasn't upset, was more concerned about _him_ than anything; that this was apparently such a completely normal sequence of events that it was barely worth comment. It bothered him more that he could probably have done nearly anything he wanted to Anders and gotten the same response. Libertarian, Karl told him, and he could see it in the number of times Anders had run, but inside the tower, Anders pretended everything was exactly the way he liked. And the smiles never stopped, anywhere Niall had seen him.

When Niall looked up at the shift in the air, Anders was right there, still smiling, for some stupid reason. Anders tucked his knuckle under Niall's chin, both to tip his head up and keep his mouth shut, and pressed a long, slow kiss against Niall's lips. "Any time you want to do that again, maybe with a little less barfing, you know where to find me." He traced a last line of healing down Niall's cheek and then cast the spell that would open the door.

"I do," Niall whispered, as he eased past Anders, back into the library, knowing even then that he wouldn't. That he couldn't bear it again.


	13. The Year We Wanted to Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward placement. Number Six actually comes immediately before this chapter, but it stands alone in the Rhapsody series. Note also that Because Rhapsody (tm), we break with canon on when Karl was sent to Kirkwall.

"There's nothing out there," Surana said, shaking his head. "Why does he keep running?"

"Maker, Fen, shut up," Karl hissed -- he didn't call Surana 'Alim', any more, nor did anyone else who liked not being slapped; the elf called himself 'Fen'Din', these days, as some sort of deranged elvish pun. He turned to look down the hall as he heard the door at the end creak open, and froze at the sight.

It took him a long moment to register what he was seeing. Two templars and Wynne -- that was what he saw, first. And then he realised what the templars were carrying. That was Anders, unconscious, if not dead, hair and robes scorched and singed. Karl's next breath heaved, and he nearly screamed, but the elf's elbow caught him hard under the ribs, and he curled forward, gasping and choking, as Surana shoved him backward into the nearest room.

"Don't do it, or they'll take you, too," Surana warned, and Karl knew he was right.

Wynne's voice was strident, as she came up the hall with the templars, reaming them about their treatment of her patient -- her apprentice -- and how the First Enchanter would hear of this.

Karl still struggled to breathe as the group passed them, and Wynne shot him a sympathetic look. She knew. Of course she knew. They'd been careful, but she was Wynne, and she knew everything. But she was also yelling about Anders in the present tense, which strongly implied he was still alive, and that, at least, was something. Probably not for Anders, though, who'd meant to make it out the window or die trying.

"Karl."

He could vaguely make out someone speaking to him, but he didn't dare turn away from the procession making its way down the hall.

"Thekla, I will fill your ass with bees, if you don't turn around and look at me," Surana insisted, and Karl finally turned, directly into a solid slap that rocked him back on his heels.

"Pull yourself together. You can either sit here and cry or you can do something useful. I'm pretty sure you can't do both, and I'm pretty sure useful is going to require more than one of us, in this case. They're taking him downstairs."

Karl put a hand on the wall, trying to calm the persistent shiver that rattled his entire body. He eyed Surana, hesitant and unwilling to believe.

"Yeah. That downstairs." Surana nodded.

Anders had been in the dungeon before, although never for long. A day or two, here and there, for stupid shit, while Wynne or the First Enchanter argued for him. He'd come back worn and tired-looking, every time, with a faint terror in his eyes, but always joking. Always, always joking, because that was the nature of Anders.

"Do you think he's coming back?" Karl asked, finally finding his voice.

"If he's not coming back, I'm bringing him back. I'm not done with him," Surana declared. "And if I can't bring him back, I'm walking out of here."

"I thought you said there was nothing out there," Karl pointed out. This was the first time he'd ever heard Surana mention outside with any intent. The elf usually insisted that when he could part the walls of the tower with his mind and step out into the body of the Fade, it would be time for him to leave, and not before that. A dangerous line of thinking, but one that had actually made the templars _less_ afraid of him, the poor stupid bastards.

"There will be, because it will be time for me to move on." Surana looked up, gold eyes deadly serious. "You'll either come with me, or you won't. That's not my decision to make."

"If they kill him, I'm coming with you," Karl decided. He'd never felt a need to leave. Certainly the tower had its dangers, but they were nothing compared to what was outside. But, every time Anders ran, he came back with more stories that seemed to belie those assumptions. And with Anders dead, the inside of the tower would be a great deal more dangerous than anything that waited outside.

Surana laughed, an ugly sound that went well with the gleam in his eyes. "If they kill him, he's coming with me, too."

Karl looked away, watching skeletons of mice clamber out from behind the furniture to scurry over and huddle around Surana's feet. The elf picked one up, stroking the bare skull gently, with one finger.

"They're not taking another bird from me," Surana said, softly. "I won't stand for it."  


* * *

A month passed, and the First Enchanter had little news he was willing to share. He argued in Anders's favour, he said, because the boy was an excellent healer. But, the boy wasn't a boy, any more. He was a Harrowed mage, who'd probably just blown his chance to ever become an Enchanter. No circle would trust him, with his record. To some degree, at least, that record guaranteed he would remain a Kinloch Hold problem until his demise or final disappearance, since no other circle would take responsibility for him. That eased some of Karl's fears.

But, those fears turned in whole new ways when he heard the templars were trying to prove that Anders had used blood magic. That would likely be the end of him, if they managed it. There was little mercy for maleficarum, of which Anders was not one, but the templars had ways of twisting things until they fit. Somewhere in the tower, someone was practising blood magic. That had become increasingly apparent, in recent months, and had been yet another reason Anders had chosen to run, again -- to get out before he could be blamed -- but instead, he'd walked right into it.

"Tell me they aren't hurting him," Karl pleaded, the world seeming to distort around him as he stared at the pattern in the rug, breath coming quicker.

"I can't," First Enchanter Irving said sadly, standing up from his desk to help Karl out of his office. "However much I might wish it to be so. I have seen him but once, since he woke, and then he was still singed from his own flames." He paused, a fatherly arm around Karl, as they stood in the doorway. "I am trying. But, this time, he's made it so much harder."  


* * *

Surana looked furious, bones scattered around his part of the room, bits of spells sketched out in charcoal on the walls, as he worked. He looked over his shoulder at the sound of a knock on the open door. "I can't do it. I can't get them in."

"Fen, come on, sit down. You're not eating. You remind me of him, when he gets started." Karl produced a small bag, containing an apple and a few rolls, from the last meal.

"I am not just any wolf, belannaren'lan. I am one wolf, in particular, and if you call me by my name, you will call me by my name." It was an old argument, and one Surana usually found entertaining, but this time, it didn't even put an angry smile on his face.

Karl threw an apple at Surana's head. "Anders was right. 'Elfhole'. Eat something, before I have to save him by myself, because I can't raise you from the dead."

"I'm already dead," Surana growled, snatching the apple from where it had bounced off his forehead and landed on the bed. "I will eat, though. I need to write less and think more."

Karl studied the walls. "Are you sure it's not just a ward?" he asked, finally, as Surana chewed at the core of the apple. "It looks like you're hitting it on every entrance to that part of the cellar."

"I'm not sure of anything. If it's a ward, it's not the kind of ward I was expecting. The templars pass through it, but I can't get anything else in." Surana complained, throwing the stem of the apple onto the bedside table.

"That's ugly. For us, anyway." Karl shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed.

"They're going to have a grand time sweeping up all the bones," Surana laughed. "There's a pile of mice and lizards, where I kept running them along the line, trying to push through. I can't pick them back up. I got them to cross and just... lost them."

"Runes in the floor, probably," Karl sighed. "To prevent exactly what you're trying to do."

"Who does that?" Surana insisted. "It's not reasonable! That's why I expected it to work!"  


* * *

Weeks later, the dungeon spontaneously filled with bees, and the templars evacuated until they could get someone in to clear them out. Anders's hysterical cackling could be heard almost to the stairs, and he treasured the fragment of a hive they built in the corner of his cell, before they were driven out.

Surana looked all too amused, at supper, the night the bees appeared, loading himself up with honey, vinegar, and apples, as whispers of the swarm darted through the room.

Karl sat down heavily and served himself a bowl of soup. "Bees?" he hissed across the table. "Are you _mad_?"

"They say he's laughing." Surana shrugged, entirely undisturbed. "The dead return to death. The living can be coerced through and then they're out of my hands." He chewed another slice of apple, the honey dripping from his fingers. "But, they say he's laughing. He knows."

"But, what if they know?"

"Bees. Who remembers?"

"He remembers!" Karl snapped, voice strained, but low.

"Do you think so little of him?" Surana asked, gaze measured and cold.

"No, but I fear them that much," Karl admitted, swallowing a spoonful of soup to hide the way his throat tensed.

"He's Harrowed, just as we are. Demons couldn't turn him. What makes you think men will?"

Karl hadn't considered that, and he felt a bit better, until Surana went on.

"On the other hand, if I'm right, they _are_ demons, and we're all stuck here until we overcome this false prison and shape the Fade in our own image." Surana shrugged and hummed ecstatically, sucking on a vinegar-dipped apple slice. "Either way, he can do demons. He's done demons."  


* * *

Karl was mad for news, bribing whoever he could for word of Anders's condition. The words he heard were mostly displeasing, although it seemed Anders had taken up with the tower's mouser, Mister Wiggums. The cat, apparently, seemed very protective, despite the fact that Anders didn't feed him. Karl wondered at that, until Surana reminded him that Anders probably didn't have anything to feed the cat _with_.

They tried sending notes down, with the cat, but never got a response. Neither one was willing to speculate on whether that meant the messages weren't getting in at all, or something worse, but the cat seemed just as pleasant as usual, when they saw him.

Months later, there was no cat, any more. It had been possessed by a demon and killed a few templars. One of them, Karl had actually liked, which was a shame. Likeable templars were such a rarity. But, the Knight-Commander was intent on blaming the possession on Anders -- an argument he had at top volume with the First Enchanter, who argued that Anders was so full of magebane he'd most likely stopped dreaming entirely, making contact with demons impossible.

Even Surana looked ill as those words echoed down the hall.  


* * *

They were returning from supper, Surana still holding a bowl loaded with some obscene combination of cream, honey, and fruit, frozen nearly solid and heaped with spice biscuits. He punctuated his sentences with nearly sexual sounds around mouthfuls of cold, sugary sludge, as he debated the finer points of mechanical necromancy as opposed to spiritual and demonic necromancy with Karl.

They were returning from supper, when Anders was brought back from below. Wynne supported him between two templars, who looked like they'd rather be doing literally anything else. He was filthy and ragged, beard looking like it had been hacked short with a dull knife, dark shadows under his eyes, and what looked to be at least blood in his long, tangled hair.

Anders's eyes slid off Karl and landed on Surana. "Fuckless," he rasped, something like a smile curling his barely-visible lips. "Honey." He didn't dare say anything else, not with the templars so close, but he hoped Surana understood.

"I saved you some," Surana said, holding up his bowl and nodding. The bees. Anders remembered the bees.

"You boys can catch up later," Wynne scolded, nudging Anders down the hall. "He needs --"

"I just want to go back to my room and lie down," Anders choked out, words still not quite working for him.

"They, um... It's not your room any more." Karl shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know where they mean to put you."

They watched the panic swirl in Anders's eyes. A few short, ragged breaths, and he clung to Wynne. "What--?"

"Doesn't matter," Karl said, holding out his hand. "We got to it before anyone else did. You can stay with one of us, until they figure out what to do with you."

"The infirmary," Wynne insisted. "You will be staying in the infirmary, until I'm sure you're not going to die if I leave you alone for five minutes."

"Or you could leave him with us," Surana suggested. "We'll make sure he doesn't die."

"He needs a healer," Wynne pointed out.

"But, Enchanter, he _is_ a healer." Surana sucked more sweet cream off his spoon, but held off on the obscene sounds of appreciation.

"Right now, he's not. He's practically Tranquil, but without the peace of mind," she retorted, unthinking, and a raw sound of terror wrenched out of Anders.

He clapped his hand over his mouth and whispered apologies.

Karl looked like he might throw up. Surana kept eating, but with shorter, jerkier motions.

"Anders?" Surana left the spoon in his mouth and snapped until Anders looked up. "Anders, what do you want to do?"

Anders shook his head and stared at the floor. "I don't want anything. I'm sorry. I don't want anything. I don't want."

Wynne glared at the two mages before her, as if her eyes alone could slay them where they stood. Karl stepped forward, obviously intending to put his arms around Anders, but Wynne threw a hand out. "No!"

Anders flinched and sank to his knees. "Please don't. No. Please don't."

The two templars groaned and looked at each other. "Look, Enchanter--"

"Just go," Wynne told them. "Your orders were to see that he was brought up and placed in my care. He is now in my care. Go report that your duty is done, and I will take care of this."

Surana took advantage of the distraction to slip by all of them and crouched down to press his bowl into Anders's hands. "I saved you some. We heard you didn't have enough to feed the cat, but this is for you. You look hungry."

"Elfhole?" Anders looked up and Surana pulled the spoon out of his mouth and stuck it back in the bowl. "You crazy bastard! What are you doing? If they see you--"

"You're out, roundear. You're on the floor in front of the Apprentice Dorms." Surana shook his head, eyes bright and serious. "Whatever they told you, they lied. Don't let them fuck with your world, roundear. It's _your_ world, and you're still in it, because they can't take you out. Don't you think they would have, if they could? But, they can't. And now you're back up here with us. Karl's right next to me. Wynne's right next to you."

Anders looked around, surprised again. "How do I know you're real?" he asked.

"Roundear? Look at me. When have you ever mistaken me for real?" Surana grinned and pointed at the bowl. "Eat that. You'll know."

Eyeing the bowl suspiciously, Anders took a spoonful of the half-frozen disaster and squinted at it for a moment before putting it in his mouth. It tasted like pain and sand, at first, until that resolved into cold and sweet -- two things his body had forgotten how to handle. "Eugh. Yes, you're real. Oh, Andraste save me from elven cooking." He paused, staring into the bowl, tears welling up in his eyes. "You're real. I'm here."

Surana was completely surprised by the crushing hug, and it was only Karl's quick hands that kept the bowl from flipping onto the floor, as Anders completely forgot he was holding it. Pressed this tight against Anders, a few things became obvious to Surana, beginning with the fact that the healer smelled _rank_ \-- not just a week of unwashed, but much longer, and with an undercurrent of old blood and the sweet smell of decay.

"You need a bath, roundear," Surana muttered into Anders's shoulder. "You stink like middens."

"I can't..." Anders started, but the rest of the sentence wouldn't come. "I know, but I can't..."

"Of course you can." Karl sat on his heels beside Surana. "We'll help you. Let go of Dead and Fuckless over here, and I'll get you wherever you need to go. Unlike the rest of you nerds, I have my own room, now. Private room. Private bath. It'll be quiet, while we find out where they've moved you."

Anders nodded and sat back, letting go of Surana. He nodded. "Okay. Okay, I can do that. Quiet."

Karl handed the bowl back to the elf. "Arms around my neck, pretty boy," he said and waited for that to happen, before he pulled Anders into his arms and stood. It was too easy. Much too easy. In fact, before this, Karl hadn't been able to lift Anders at all, and this should have ended in comic failure, but Karl found himself standing in the middle of the hall with Anders in his arms, and strength remaining to walk like that. He shot a horrified look at Wynne.

"I know," she said, lips set in a bitter line. "Lead the way."

Surana started in about mechanical necromancy, again, cramming his face full of fruit and sweet cream, as they walked down the hall. He dragged Anders into the debate, as if he hadn't been gone at all, slipping spice biscuits to the healer, while no one else was looking. The last year had been bullshit -- absolute bullshit -- but it was over, now, and Anders was home.


	14. Liars and Lunatics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is not all right, and sometimes just a healer isn't enough. An apprentice attempts suicide, but Anders finds him and brings him to Wynne. Kinnon can't handle the blood; Finn can't handle Anders; but nobody dies in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: attempted suicide, abuse of power, Anders being flippant about everything in sight

The first thing Wynne heard, from where she was offering a spoon of a tincture to a young girl with a cough, toward the far side of the infirmary, was the sound of the door slamming open hard enough to bounce off the shelves. The next thing, whole seconds later, was a rustle of cloth, a thump, and the tinkle of a shattering bottle.  
  
"You can't let him work by the door," Anders complained, checking to make sure he wasn't about to step on Kinnon, as he carried a bloodsoaked apprentice into the room. "This is the fourth time he's done that."  
  
"Seventh, this year," Wynne corrected, setting aside the spoon and directing the girl she'd been helping to one of the cots in the back. "Is that Dougal? Is he alive?"  
  
"Barely," Anders answered, laying the apprentice on the long table. "Poison and both arms. I don't know what he took, but I tried everything I could think of, on the way up."  
  
"Where?" Wynne asked, buttoning her sleeves back as the crossed the room. She snapped and pointed to one of her apprentices, without looking away from Anders and Dougal. "Florian, clean up Kinnon's mess and make sure he's broken no bones."  
  
Kinnon lay as still as if he were a Tevinter decoration carved from the floor itself, and Florian crouched beside him, soaking up the potion and gathering the glass with a rag. Nothing costly in price or effort -- Kinnon wasn't allowed to touch anything important, as far as Florian knew, for exactly this reason.  
  
"Dormitory bath. Yes, I know, what was I doing in there, but I was just in to bring a potion to an apprentice who couldn't get to one. Foul. Utterly foul. She'll be fine. Him..." Here, Anders cast a grim eye toward Wynne. "I closed what was open, but..." He gestured to Dougal's swollen belly. "I tried everything obvious that I had with me."  
  
"Have you considered it may just be gas?" Wynne asked, prodding gently at the unconscious apprentice, and lowering her ear to his belly.  
  
"He ripped open both his arms with a smashed chamberpot -- one of the last of the idiot porcelain ones. You'll forgive me if I didn't jump to that conclusion." Anders turned a pointed look on his mentor. "Whatever it is, I can't smell it on him."  
  
"Well, we'll do this the easy way, then," Wynne said, and Anders cringed.  
  
"You want me to hold him for it, don't you."  
  
"It would be much easier for you. You're taller. I'd have Kinnon do it, but with the blood..." Wynne turned away to pick through an assortment of bottles, counting the ones she had left of what she chose.  
  
"Enchanter, speaking of the blood, he's bleeding..." Florian's voice cracked, as he tried to blot it up with the rag he held without pressing any glass into Kinnon.  
  
"So, heal him, Flora." The eye-roll was audible in Anders's voice. "It's just Kinnon, and the only thing he hit was the floor."  
  
"Anders..." Wynne shot him a pointed look, and with an entirely put-upon sigh, Anders gathered up Kinnon and dumped him on a cot, mid-healing.  
  
"He's fine. The bottle hit before he did. It was just a piece of glass in his face." Rolling his eyes, Anders made his way back to where Wynne was pouring a potion down Dougal's throat, carefully ensuring he didn't inhale it. "You should wash the blood off before he wakes up, Flora."  
  
"It's _Finn_ , dammit!" Florian snapped, finally.  
  
"Whatever you say, Flora," Anders retorted, folding Dougal's robes up and tucking them into the unconscious mage's belt. "We have metal up here, right? I don't want him waking up and trying again," he muttered to Wynne. "If he's that intent, I might let him have it. Maker knows, it's got to be better than some of the things I've been through in here."  
  
"Anders, we both know the majority of what's happened to you, you all but asked for." Wynne sighed and moved a folding screen out of the way of a close stool.  
  
"Better me than anyone else," Anders retorted, hefting Dougal as the unconscious mage's stomach gurgled in warning. "And it shouldn't be happening to anyone. Even me. But, I'll take it."  
  
Wynne helped Anders fold Dougal onto the stool. "And this is why you should take my place, one day, but it's also why I can't see the Enchanters allowing you near it. You need to be less reckless, and you need to get there while you're still young, so they'll overlook it, later. I was quite wild, once."  
  
"You really need to get a strap for this thing," Anders muttered, holding Dougal in place as the inevitable followed, and the stench rose up around them. "Can't keep subjecting your apprentices to this. It's inhumane!"  
  
" _That's_ inhumane?" Kinnon groaned and swatted Florian's hands and the bloody rag away from his face, as he returned to his senses. "Is that really the hill you're going to die on, Anders?"  
  
"Of course not, you drunken nug's testicle, I intend to die on West Hill, with the breeze caressing my nethers, like a free man." Anders finally choked on the stench. "Andraste's flaming knickers, what did he drink?"  
  
Wynne's eyes lit, her amused tolerance all but gone. "I'll be speaking with the Knight-Commander about it, because he didn't do this willingly. Irving as well, I suppose, but I don't see that going far."  
  
"Because he's a soft touch?" Anders asked, still eternally grateful for that fact.  
  
"No, because I don't believe a mage was responsible. He'd have been in here, not in the bath, if it had been another mage." Wynne's hands remained steady as she brought a spell to bear. "It will have been one of the new transfers from Denerim."  
  
Anders groaned and rolled his eyes. "Denerim. Of course it's Denerim. How do they still have that lieutenant?"  
  
"Politics," Wynne replied, as Dougal's eyes began to flutter. "Kinnon! Blue bottle, egg-shaped, third shelf over the condenser! Florian, run to the kitchen for vegetable broth! Make sure it's vegetable! Don't let them give you chicken, or we'll be here all night!"  
  
"Yes, Enchanter!" Florian raced out of the room, thrilled to remove himself from the foulness that filled half of it.  
  
Gagging and staggering, Kinnon pressed a bottle into Wynne's hand, then backed away, his sleeve pressed over his face.  
  
"Dougal? I need you to wake up, child," Wynne prodded, uncorking the bottle.  
  
"Yeah, drink that and go back to sleep," Anders choked out, breathing shallowly. "You don't want to be awake for this."  
  
As the apprentice recognised Wynne and realised what must have happened, "No, no, no! _Why_?"  
  
"Because you're not going to die from it. Or the other it." Anders's voice surprised Dougal, who hadn't yet realised someone was holding him up. As he tried to leap up, Anders held him down. "Stay put. Maker, someone get Kinnon to put up a shield, before you uncover what's under you."  
  
"Stop taking my name in vain!" Kinnon called across the room, from where he was shelving bottles again.  
  
"Who did this to you?" Wynne asked, tipping the bottle into Dougal's mouth, as he opened it to answer her.  
  
He choked down the potion, before he replied. "No one. I did it to myself."  
  
"Talked like he was from Denerim, right? Said you'd be sent to Aeonar, if you survived?" Anders's voice was far more cheery than the situation called for. "And people wonder why I keep leaving!"  
  
"How did--" Dougal glanced over his shoulder, surprised, and then horrified. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"If you tell me who did this, I can make sure he never does it again," Wynne said, firmly. "I will talk to Commander Greagoir, myself. Just as easily as templars are transferred in, they can be transferred out. Some are not fit to serve here. Or anywhere."  
  
"And if she can't, I definitely can." Anders's voice was low and dangerous, just beside Dougal's ear. Then he straightened up. "Kinnon--"  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
"Oh, come on, it's a shield. You can probably do it from there!"  
  
Dougal went to get up again, and Anders held him firm.  
  
"Nope. Not until someone gets a shield under you. Room's foul enough already."  
  
"What are you doing! I was supposed to die!" Dougal lunged against Anders's hands again. "Now, it's going to be the hard way!"  
  
Wynne finally took pity and cast a shield inside the close stool, herself, locking in the stench, at least for a little while. "Dougal, don't be dramatic. No one has to die."  
  
"Well, someone might, but it's not going to be you," Anders muttered, letting go of Dougal's shoulders to untuck the apprentice's robes from his belt.  
  
"Anders, don't." Wynne's eyes flashed as she jabbed a stiff finger at him.  
  
"I might," Anders grumbled. "Look, if you manage this, it's just because Commander high and mighty likes you better."  
  
"Of course he likes me better!" Wynne sighed and steered the still-shaking Dougal toward the cot Kinnon had occupied minutes before. "He's known me longer and I don't antagonise him every time there's an opportunity! We have a good working relationship! He's a good man, and he's doing his best."  
  
Anders finally raised his voice, gesturing at Dougal, his golden eyes lit as if with all the fire in the room. "If this is his best, then he should be replaced with someone better."  
  
"This isn't his fault," Wynne argued, "but it's about to be his problem."  
  
"Seriously, Anders," Kinnon called, from the other side of the room, "he only has a problem with you because you're an asshole. It's like you're physically incapable of not making trouble every chance you get."  
  
"Oh, because you're one to talk?" Anders shot back.  
  
"The difference is I'm hilarious and I never get caught. I've also never taken a fucking highwayman's holiday over the lake." The bottles clinked as Kinnon grabbed the next one.  
  
Anders waited until the sounds of glass slowed. "You never get caught because I do it _for you_."  
  
Kinnon almost dropped the next bottle. " _What?_ "  
  
"The thing with the dancing stones was great, don't get me wrong, but they went after Goldie and Goldie for it." Anders spun around and bowed, eyes never leaving Kinnon's face. "You know me, I'm talented and powerful. I'm guilty of all kinds of things southern magic calls impossible, right?"  
  
"Oh, _shit_." Kinnon paled. "They're like _fourteen_! I'd never--"  
  
"And that's why you get away with things, Kinnon." Anders smiled impolitely. "So maybe, the next time I ask you to cast a shield, just _do it_."  
  
"Shit, I _didn't know_!" Kinnon insisted, his usually ruddy cheeks milk-white. "I swear, I thought they got you for something _else_! Something _you_ did!"  
  
"It doesn't matter. If it wasn't that, I'd've stepped in front of something else. Something I didn't do, most likely." Anders stretched, like a very large cat. "I'm trouble, but I'm only half as much trouble as I look like. Better me than you, or the Goldies, or him." He pointed at Dougal, again. "One day they'll break me, they'll kill me, or I'll get away for real, and then you knicker-lickers are on your own."  
  
"You better teach me that stupid dance, before they drown you in the lake for everyone's health." Kinnon pressed a hand over his face and started laughing, as Florian returned, bearing soup.  
  
Anders turned his nose up, primly. "I doubt you have the grace for the Spicy Shimmy."  
  
"Is that the thing where you swagger around like a drunken nug?" Florian asked, giving both of them a wide berth, as he brought the bowl to Wynne.  
  
"Like an Antivan prostitute, not that you've ever seen one," Anders huffed.  
  
"If they dance like drunken nugs, I think we're better without," Dougal joked, weakly.  
  
"You'll stay here until I've sorted this out. I'll want to keep an eye on you for secondary effects," Wynne said, firmly. "And no one is dancing like a drunken nug in my infirmary. Or like a prostitute. Perhaps especially like a prostitute, _Anders_."  
  
"It's not my fault I'm too beautiful for my own good." Anders leaned back and fluttered his eyelashes at Wynne.


	15. A Matter of Coming and Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders pisses off the templars again. Some more talk of breaking out again.

Anders was furious -- the sort of scared and angry he usually was after the kind of day he'd just had -- and the scrap stack at the end of the table, behind him, had started to smoulder, as he hissed and snarled about exactly how vile and disgusting he found the entire templar order. Karl and Surana were trying to make sense of the expletive-filled half-sentences, to figure out what had happened, this time, when the smoke caught Karl's eye.

"Anders?" Karl nodded in the direction of the smouldering pages. "Hot enough without the help, aren't you? Or should I come over there and warm you up? No need to burn down the library, because Ser Loathsome can't keep it in his pants."

Anders held up one finger toward Karl. "Don't touch me. Not now."

Karl looked away, nauseated and uncertain, as Surana put out the fire with a heavy, leatherbound tome, and then reached for Anders's face. The one thing that was understood between them was that 'don't touch' almost never applied to Surana.

"You actually are hot, this time, roundear." Surana pointed out, hefting himself onto one knee on top of the table, to scan the library for more smoke. "If you can't find it, maybe you should talk to Wynne."

"I'm not sick. I'm just pissed off." Anders shook his head. "They caught me in the bath in one of the apprentice dorms. Gerda was complaining again -- you know Gerda. Nobody believes her except the ones who know, and they're not talking. So, I told her I'd solve the problem. Either we'd know she was wrong, or ... I'd get dragged through the tower naked." He shrugged. "It's not like anyone's going to be surprised by the sight."

"How'd the First Enchanter take it?" Karl asked, finally, still looking into the stacks.

"Andraste's blessings on the old man until the end of days. He caught us in the hall and gave me his belt -- you know, that big wide one? It helps, when you're not trying to carry on a serious conversation with your sausage and eggs in the breeze." Anders laughed, a light flush chasing across his cheeks. "Greagoir, understandably, completely lost it when he figured out what must have been going on. Of course, to him, I was in just as much shit as Chrome-pants and the Tin Bucket. Imagine! A Harrowed mage as old as I am bathing in the apprentice dorms! Scandalous!"

"And it's _you_ , so I'm sure he was pushing for the worst," Surana sighed, stroking the teeth of the skeletal rat on his shoulder.

"He was arguing that I had to be treated like any other maleficar. That it didn't matter whether I'd done blood magic, that I should have never been permitted a Harrowing, that it might be too late to make me Tranquil, but it was never too late to send me to Aeonar." Anders started to shake, looking irritatedly at his hands, as it he couldn't figure out why he couldn't make it stop.

Surana just laughed, maybe a little too loudly for the library. "Aeonar. As if such a place would hold you, for long."

"Don't joke." Karl shook his head. "Not about that place."

"Why not? The world outside is his world. It's his dream. He just keeps coming back because he can't go on without us." Surana laughed again, and the rat scuttled up to the top of his head. "It's not as if you'll go with him."

"Me? What about you? You're not exactly lining up to bust out of here," Karl pointed out, with a sharp look at Surana.

"I'll know when it's my time to go. I won't need to sneak out. The walls will part for me, when I go. They remember the magisters who raised the real tower, and not this demon-infested echo. I will go, when the stones know me for what I am. I will go, when I am enough to command them." Surana smiled at Karl as if he'd just explained fireballs to a young apprentice.

"Well, the next time, I'll make it. I almost made it the last time, but those windows are murder. Find a nice town and grow a beard, grow some barley. A couple of years, and I'll come back for you. Both of you. We can grow barley and keep cats. Maybe somewhere in the south. Down in the Chasind lands. They'll never find us, there."

"I want to go north," Karl said, looking down into his lap. "I want to go to Minrathous."

"Then we'll go to Minrathous," Anders promised, reaching out to run a hand through Karl's hair, tugging gently until he tipped his face up into a long, passionate kiss. "I'll come back for you. I promise. And when I come back, they'll have to go search the cellar to find something that would stop me from taking you away from here, because there will be no post-Imperial magic that will hold me back."

"There are still templars," Surana pointed out. "Templars tend to make magic irrelevant."

"I'll come back with an army, and we'll sneak out the back." Anders smiled slyly and slid into Karl's lap, pulling him into another kiss. "I promise I'll get out, and I promise I'll get you out. And I guess elfhole over here can be a smartass about it all. You coming with us, or what?"

"It's not like you'll be rid of me for long, either way," Surana yawned, stretching. "But, I suppose I'd better be prepared, if you come back for him. I'm sure you'll end up back in here -- both of you -- if I don't go with you."

"Andraste's tits, but you're full of yourself, elfhole," Anders teased, pinching Surana's thigh, before he remembered how entirely pointless that was.

The elf smirked wickedly at his fellow mages.

"No. Don't." Karl jabbed a finger at Surana. "Do. Not. He's sitting on my lap."

A faint humming could be heard from between Surana's palms, and the rat peered down, inquisitively, from his shoulder. Karl leapt up, flipping over the bench and tripping on it, as Anders fell forward, smacking his face on the table. Surana laughed so hard he lost the spell, and by the templars found them, cackling madly in the corner of the library, there was no sign they'd been up to anything but reading, and no one was ever quite sure what was so funny about Nevarran histories of the Tevinter occupation of the Marches.


	16. An Imperfect Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders has a plan. Now he just needs parts, and there's one place he's sure he can get at least some of them. (nsfw)

This one was going to be slow. This time, he needed to time it perfectly. The Templars and Enchanters were still watching him, after the last time, but they hadn't figured out they needed to be watching Valery, and that was going to save him. They really thought they'd kept Val away from everything dangerous -- everything _Val_ could make dangerous. And more importantly, they really thought Val was paying him in Montfort Red and glass trinkets, same as he paid everyone else he wanted favours from.

Anders flicked a tiny ball of paper into Frick's tea, as he passed where the two were muttering over a stack of books. He didn't stop to check if either of them retrieved it. It didn't matter. They'd be there.

Hours and several promises later, Anders slipped into a hidden room buried in the endless maze of library shelves. There were a lot of those, he'd noticed. And _really_ weirdly, Frick seemed to know where all of them were. The reason for that wasn't a secret he was willing to pay for, though. Not the way they used him -- and it was always both of them, no matter which one had the solution to his problem. He'd take it, though. Better them than the alternative. There was a lot he'd put up with, if it meant he could leave this place, and they'd been surprisingly good about not turning him in, no matter what he asked for.

He felt the spell that opened the door and backed into a spot that wouldn't be lit when it opened, giving him a chance to be sure it was who he expected.

"What do you want, this time, Andermeat?" Frick asked, the door sliding noiselessly shut behind them. "Going to give us everything we ask for?"

"Only if you give me everything I want," Anders retorted, a fairly standard response.

"Oh, you know we pay very well for what you have to offer." Val purred, following Anders's voice until he was close enough that Anders could feel the radiant heat off him. "But, I think I speak for us both when I say you don't disappoint us."

Frick made a noncommittal sound.

"Yes, but that would be a single use only," Val reminded him.

"It wouldn't have to be!" Frick protested.

"Yes, it would," Anders cut in.

"Because you have so many other options," Frick scoffed, still keeping his distance.

"I'd rather fuck a Templar," Anders snapped.

"You fuck Templars anyway. I'm starting to think it gives you a thrill."

Val sucked in a sharp breath. "Well, that's what you don't want. Tell us what you do want, so we can get to the part where you give us what _we_ want."

"Two shield runes -- the best you can get -- and a dozen low-intensity fire runes." Anders's grim smile was invisible in the dark, but audible in his voice.

Val put it together instantly. "You're out of your fucking mind, Anders."

"I'm sorry, was that a 'no'?" Anders's robes rustled as he tried to move around them, toward the door. "Pleasure doing business, as always."

"I can do it." Frick's voice was strong and quiet. "But, you are paying for every one of those runes. Separately. You're asking for dangerous things."

"Not dangerous for me to have, but dangerous for you to get," Anders clarified, his chin tipping up with the corners of his mouth.

"Everything is dangerous for you to have," Val argued, and Anders could hear him throw his hands up in exasperation. "You can barely be trusted with a cup of tea!"

"And yet you trust me with your knob."

"You haven't managed to use my knob to fight Templars or escape the tower," Val pointed out. "And that's not a suggestion."

"We'd charge extra for that," Frick teased.

"Fine, he can use your knob, then." Val stepped back, and Anders didn't reach for him.

"I haven't needed anyone's knob but mine for either of those things." Anders choked on a laugh. "Besides, yours is too small to use for anything but fucking."

"Just because you're hung like a cudgel," Frick scoffed, shaking his head.

"Which makes that an utterly inappropriate size for fucking, doesn't it? Have you ever even managed to get that in anyone?" The cloying tone in Val's voice didn't escape Anders's notice. 

"Of course I have," he snapped, leaving out the part where it was only once and they'd both regretted the attempt.

"Are they still alive?" Frick wheezed, trying to contain his laughter.

"Did you want to get laid or not?" Anders's tone could've split rock, it was so cold. "Because right now, I'm thinking not."

"There are cheaper lays with more holes," Frick retorted, the breathy laughter suddenly gone.

"And yet, you keep paying me," Anders reminded him, smugly. "Do we have a deal?"

"Get on your knees," Frick demanded, finally stepping forward.

"Yes," Val said, quickly, "we have a deal."

Anders sank down silently, wishing for a moment that his hands could give Frick a start, as he slid them up those tight legs, but Frick couldn't be startled by anyone, as far as he and Elfhole had been able to tell. He waited until Frick's robes lifted away from his arms, until he heard the sound of the cloth being tucked into Frick's belt.

"And you, Valery?" Anders drawled, breath ghosting over Frick's skin.

"I'll wait my turn. You're always better after you've been loosened up a bit," Val purred, the shift in the air signalling that he'd circled around behind Anders.

"Funny, and here I thought you liked it tight." Anders barely finished the sentence before the end of Frick's knob pushed between his lips, already throbbing so hard Anders could feel it in his teeth, clashing with his own pulse deeper in his skull. Anders let the flesh slide across his tongue, swallowing to press the tip against the roof of his mouth, and Frick snatched at his hair, pulling Anders in sharply. It was a damn good thing he was a healer, Anders thought, as Frick's knob slammed against the back of his throat and then slid down.

Frick made a breathy sound of determination, as Anders swallowed again and again, cold, raspy breaths flashing against Frick's skin at every stolen inhale. There, in the dark, where no one could see, Frick let himself relax just that little bit. He put out his hand to support himself against an ancient bookcase and let the burning radiance of Anders's touch wash over him, teasing and tempting him in ways no one else would ever understand. Anders was incredible at this, at every way Frick had found to take him, but that wasn't the point. Fucking was nice, but like he'd said, there was no shortage of people who'd accept an offer from him and Valery. Most of them for free. But, there was something about Anders that was more -- some aura of power around him that crept in and soothed the ravening ache at the core of Frick's being.

The thought of just letting go, of drinking it in until he was satisfied, dragged a quiet moan between his clenched teeth, and Anders took it as encouragement, doing something thoroughly impossible with his tongue, until Frick's legs trembled and his control was like spikes behind his eyes. It was so good, and it could be so much better, but Sweeney had made very sure he'd understood the consequences of his hunger. And Valery had made very sure he'd understood the consequences of permitting his desires to be known. And, so, he held himself back, taking advantage of Anders's mouth and the wrenching promise of comfort Anders's presence forced on him, drawing in only as much as Anders offered... and maybe just a little more. No one would ever notice. Not in these circumstances.

On the other side of where Anders knelt, Val palmed himself, listening to the slick, wet sounds of the rough plunder of Anders's open mouth, the note of desperation in Leofric's panting breaths. He let himself imagine Leofric panting for him like that, spread under him, arched and clinging to him hard enough to bruise. That would be a pretty sight to keep him up at night, that final beautiful submission to his will. He wondered if they'd still be able to work together, if he finally broke Leofric after all these years. Beyond that, he wondered if Leofric would kill him, whether during or in the aftermath. It was a foolish desire, but one that had always nagged at him, since the first time he'd realised how striking Leofric had become, in the lean, hard fashion of Alamarri nobles.

No, he'd never have Leofric. Not like that. But, he could let the thought heat his blood until his hands shook, as he waited for his turn with Anders. He'd never been able to get his mind around Anders, not really. The man was clearly intelligent and extremely skilled -- he could've been an Enchanter, but he'd devoted himself to a path that would get him killed or sent to Aeonar, eventually. He'd set himself up to trade his other talents for a way out of the gilded cage he could've been exploiting. Not that Val could fault that, given that he so regularly benefited from it, that he so _thoroughly_ benefited from it.

And there was the little strangled sound of Leofric's release. Val knew to wait until he heard Anders speak, before he made his move -- there was no benefit in seeming impatient. Impatience was exploitable, and he would not permit Anders that hold.

"You ready for me, Val?" Anders's voice was thick under the taunting edge. "You keep this up and I'm going to start thinking you don't like me loose, you just like me used. You've got a thing for _him_ , don't you?"

"If I wanted him, I wouldn't waste my time with you, would I?" Val lied, failing to keep the razor edge out of his voice.

Frick scoffed, audibly. "What would he want with me, when we have you?"

"Was that you admitting I'm better than you at something?" Anders snorted and swallowed, chasing the sludge out of his voice and his throat.

"I have a wide variety of skills and talents," Frick lied, hoping Anders hadn't been paying enough attention, when they were younger, to call him out, now, "but when you want your knob polished to a fine spit-shine, it's best to find a specialist in the spit-polishing of knobs."

"By which you mean you couldn't suck a dick if your life depended on it, and you know it." Anders laughed sharply, tipping his head back to address Val. "Let go of the dream. You're better off with me."

"Oh, but I dream of you shutting up, Anders. I'm not giving that up." Val's hand found Anders's hair and tugged sharply. "Now stop talking and use your tongue for what it was obviously made for."

"Bleh! I don't want to taste anything in here!" Anders retorted, pressing his hands against the cold stone floor, and Frick struggled to stifle a laugh. "It's all dusty and covered in cobwebs."

"You've already licked far more questionable things than I'm offering," Val drawled, "and that's even if we only count today."

"He's right," Frick joked. "At least he shaves."

"I do _not_. That would be _horrible_. It's an entropy spell." Val shuddered audibly, his robes rustling. " _Shaving_. I would never!"

Anders listened until he understood where Val was standing and then slid his icy hand up the inside of Val's thigh. Val, predictably, squawked and tripped on Anders's arm, which was followed by the sounds of flapping and quiet stumbling.

"Shut up!" Frick hissed, loudly as he dared, shooting a glance back at the nearly invisible line of light that marked one side of the door. "If they catch us, I am marching you both straight up to Irving's office."

"Had to make sure he wasn't a pride demon," Anders teased. "Hurry the fuck up, Valery. Literally." He opened his mouth loudly and waited for Val to stagger back into position.

"I've changed my mind. Ass in the air." Val sounded like he hadn't a care in the world aside from how he meant to make use of Anders, and Frick groaned impatiently.

"You sure you have time for this?" Anders asked, hiking up his robes as he leaned forward to put his forearms on the floor.

"Of course I have time." Val fumbled in the dark, skin on skin, until he shoved all the way into Anders, in one thrust. Already slick, just as he expected. Anders always was. "You're right. I do like tight better."

Anders relaxed completely as Val's hands settled on his hip and in his hair, that tight grip holding him still as Val pounded into him, hard, fast, and reckless. The room filled with the quiet sounds of Val's stuttered breaths and slick thrusts, and Leofric wished he could see, as the hunger in him latched on to the warmth and the smell of sweat. It was easier to push it back when it wasn't his knob involved, but he'd still have just a taste of Val. Val never minded it much. He wasn't even sure Val noticed it.

There, that was the sound, that little hiccup of breath. Leofric let himself skim from Val's raw being at the moment Val would miss it least, the taste of that energy putting the bounce back in his step and the life back in his nerves. If Val touched him with those teasing fingers, then, he'd be ruined entirely, all his control undone. There would be only bones, by the time he could catch himself. It wouldn't be worth it. It would feel incredible, but it wouldn't be worth it.

He contented himself to snatch another breath from Anders, instead.

"Two runes, Frick," Anders said, without even a quaver. "That's two."

"Both of us once is one," Leofric argued, hands clenched tight against temptation as he stepped closer.

"Both of you at the same time is one," Anders shot back, his voice rising as he stood. " _That_ was two."

There were fourteen runes, Val figured, and more than enough opportunity in twelve more rounds to make up for this one. "Let him have his little victories, Leofric. We still have twelve more. How about something a little more interesting, next time? I think the 'specialist' can handle it."

"Is it going to be terribly Orlesian?" Leofric sighed, backing away toward the door. "I don't think we need acrobats and a dwarven cross. Call me simple, but..."

Anders covered his mouth against a cackle that was still clearly audible.

"I was thinking more Antivan," Val said, dismissing the jab as if he hadn't heard it.

A purr started deep in Leofric's chest. "Ooh, Antivan. Count me in."

Anders's breathing never changed, still slow, deep, and mostly inaudible. "You sure you can handle Antivan, Valery? Not too much for your dainty Orlesian sensibilities?"

"You'll find out, won't you, healer?" Val's voice bore an unmistakeable chill as he cast the spell to open the door. He and Leofric slipped out, leaving Anders alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because some people at the August party wanted to get a little further into these two...


End file.
